


I Can't Feel Nothin' At All

by GallicGalaxy



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Abuse, Everyone is kind of sassy, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Nurse Miles, Permanently a WIP, Rough Sex, Surgery, multiple sex scenes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-03-04 22:53:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 27,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3095546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GallicGalaxy/pseuds/GallicGalaxy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere in an alternate storyline Doctor Trager managed to keep Miles Upshur, and decided that there were practical advantages to keeping him around. And Miles decided that there were practical advantages to staying there with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bad Medicine

**Author's Note:**

> *WELL THIS IS A THING* I really wish I regretted writing this buuuutttt I don't. Takes place in a sort of alternate universe where Trager keeps Miles as sort of a boy toy/pet/assistant, and Miles is just like 'fuckin whatever I'll stay here'. Not very much of an AU aside from that.  
> Contains references/mentions of sex/rape, but there's nothing in here, stated or implied, that's any more disturbing/adult than anything that actually happened in outlast.  
> This first chapter is mostly just a mass of expository vomit, so if there's anything that's unclear/confusing, please tell me in a comment so that I can fix/clarify it!  
> Don't worry. There will be more. I know nobody really wants there to be more, but there will be more.

Miles hated that sick, body-mutilating, finger-severing bastard.

But at the same time, he just couldn't stay mad at him.

He knew that Trager liked him, at least more than he liked his other 'patients'. Trager had kept him alive, and Miles figured at this point that it was intentional. Trager was actually relatively gentle with Miles, compared to the horrible operations his other victims suffered. Not that Miles was untouched; he was far from it. Trager's affinity for him meant little cuts here and there, stitches, injections (Plenty of those), and every now and again, tubes and wires. He didn't know what the purpose to them was, and he doubted most of them even had one. Sometimes he wondered if Trager just cut him open to sew him back up again.

He could've run away. Miles wasn't slow, and he wasn't stupid. On top of that, Miles' main role was running around the rest of the place taking things to and from Trager's little medical bay, so he could've easily just left and never returned.

But he didn't. Why? Who knows. Maybe his and Trager's little thing was mutual. Maybe Miles got the same satisfaction out of waking up with new stitches that Trager got out of giving them to him. Maybe Miles liked being cut open and not knowing what was happening to him. Maybe he liked being injected with unknown substances. Maybe it was the drugs that Miles put into himself willingly. Maybe, Miles thought, he had just gone insane.

Trager's other patients either hated Miles or feared him. Miles received far better treatment than them: Not having to be tied down to a hospital bed, not being completely and utterly mutilated, being allowed to hoard anesthetics and painkillers, and of course, the fact that Trager wasn't going kill him. The now-deformed variants saw Miles follow Trager around, and yet they could all tell that Trager had still been giving him his fair share of surgery. They laid there in their suffering and watched Miles leave with the blood-soaked bodies of Trager's failed experiments, and they watched him return with medical supplies of dubious origin. He was more of an assistant than a surgery toy, and really more of a pet than an assistant.

The other patients had their fair share of things to say about him.

_“Hey, ya got some new stitches, Frankenstein?”_

Miles smirked a little. He was so used to the harassment that came when he walked through the patient rooms without Trager that it wasn't even really harassment anymore. He even got a little bit of sadomasochistic pleasure out of their jeering, and out of yelling insults back at them. In this case, he refrained from correcting that particular variant by telling him that he was actually trying to equate Miles to Frankenstein's  _monster,_ and in that case Trager would've been Dr. Frankenstein himself.

_“Oh look, the nurse took his head out from under the doctor's apron for long enough to come grace us with his presence!”_ Another one chimed in.

That was another thing.

They all thought he was sleeping with Trager. Every last one of them. It was regarded as common knowledge at this point, and Miles didn't bother trying to deny it. First of all, it would only make them more certain that he  _was_ , and second of all, it would imply that Miles took anything they said seriously. And he didn't.

“It was getting hot under there.” Miles chuckled, continuing to stroll forward leisurely. He knew  _why_ they all thought he was sleeping with Trager. Whenever one of them was gone, the other was usually gone as well, and they were indeed often together. Miles had his own 'room', too, instead of just a bed in a crowded, blood-scented room. Granted, Miles' room doubled as one of Trager's less-than-professional operating rooms, and all he had to sleep on was a mattress in the corner, but it was nonetheless his.

“Ya itchin' to pull 'em out yet?” The first variant shouted, while Miles walked past him. Miles rubbed his wrist against the fresh line of stitches on his bare stomach.

“I don't know, do your legs itch?” Miles spat, sneering in accompaniment. That particular patient no longer had any use of his legs whatsoever. 

“What're you here for, Patches?” The 'apron' guy taunted.

“All 'a you should shut your damn mouths.” A new voice advised. Miles continued to walk by them, searching around the back end tables for something. “If Trager heard you, he'd 'a fed 'Patches' there your eyeballs a long time ago.”

The variants were usually much, much quieter when Trager was there with Miles. Unless they had a death wish – Which some of them did. Even then, there was no guarantee that yelling at Miles would make Trager  _kill_ them.

That last comment had been an example of the other side of the patients' attitudes towards Miles: fear. There were all kinds of rumors about him, spread either in the patient rooms or throughout the rest of the asylum from Miles' adventures out there. Most of them were about something along the lines of Trager feeding Miles the organs of his dead patients (According to some, while they were still alive), or letting Miles rape and/or torture the patients to death. Miles didn't do anything to deny these stories, either. There was a certain selfish satisfaction that came from being feared.

“Yeah, cause I really care about my eyes!” The half-paralyzed patient growled in response.

“No.” Miles declared, finally finding what he had come in to look for. “Eyeballs are for dessert.” Miles wedged his hand between an end table and a crate, struggling for a moment before he slid it back out, now equipped with a bone saw. He turned the bone saw over a few times, examining it in a nonchalantly menacing manner. “First Trager would tie you up and slit your stomach open, saving the eyes for later so that you can watch while I dig in and eat all the good bits out.” Miles elaborated, smiling very casually. That wasn't true, of course, but they didn't know that.

Miles ran his tongue along the edge of the bone saw. It tasted awful, but one must make certain sacrifices for image from time to time. “Scavenger birds eat the eyes first, you know.” He rasped, deciding that the bone saw was in good enough condition and shouldering it as he started to walk back. “They're  _soft_ .” He hissed, casting a glare towards the half-paralyzed variant. “And they're full of sugars.” He didn't even know if that last bit was true or not. He remembered hearing it in biology class once.

“Ah, you're gonna be in for it.” The same one who'd told everybody to shut up grumbled. Miles chuckled a little as he walked back out the doorway, the bone saw still propped against his shoulder. He was headed back to Trager, but not in order to whine to him about being bullied by a bunch of mutated invalids. Just to return his bone saw and spend some quality time with him.

Trager was in Miles' room, rearranging his instruments. They were all still there, sitting casually on their tray, from Miles' most recent surgery. “There y'are, buddy.” Trager greeted as Miles pushed his way through the door. “You find the saw?” Trager asked, wiping off some sharp thing with an unidentified and probably unsanitary piece of cloth.

“Got it right here.” Miles grunted, taking the saw off his shoulder and setting it down next to the other instruments. Trager looked up at him with a strange softness in his eyes, smiling a little beneath his tattered mask. Miles sauntered over towards his 'bed': a mattress on supports made from broken planks, covered in artificial blankets made from canvas scraps and dismantled straitjackets. Atop it now were also Miles' shirt and jacket, wrapped around his few remaining possessions.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” Miles had been waiting for it. He turned back to face Trager and changed his trajectory towards him. Trager managed to meet him halfway. “You tired already?” Trager continued, now standing face to face with Miles.

“I'm supposed to be resting, aren't I?” Miles asked rhetorically, holding his gaze, but softening it by lowering his eyelids. Trager wrapped his arms around Miles, just above his hips, his hands searching for Miles' newest set of stitches.

“You need help?” He asked slyly. There was the offer. Miles knew exactly what he was talking about.

“Whatcha got for me?” Miles replied with the same slyness. His veins throbbed collectively at the thought of crawling to such an agonizingly slow pace that he was barely alive.

That was the last thing.

The drugs.

Miles didn't say he was 'addicted' to anything. That implied a desperation, some deep, driving force so strong it became a biological need. It implied that there was one thing in the world, one chemical compound, that was more important than everything else. Really, Miles didn't care what it was that was put into him. The things he collected on his adventures throughout the asylum grounds were anything Trager might somehow find useful, but for the most part, he just let Miles have them. The other patients didn't deserve anesthetics, anyway.

And that was what Miles looked for. Sleeping pills, anesthetics, tranquilizers. Anything that would put him under, really. Pills, liquids, powders, and gases, even. It only helped that most of them doubled as painkillers.

At first, he'd only brought them back for Trager to use on him, since Miles was the only patient Trager cared about not hurting. Eventually, though, he'd started using them on himself, or requesting Trager to knock him out. Not a  _lot_ , of course, or at least he told himself. Maybe he was a drug addict. Maybe that was what had addled his brain enough to keep him here with Trager.

Trager walked back over to his little tray of instruments, opening a re-used bottle containing various pills. He rifled through them with his long nails until he managed to scrape out two white, round pills. Miles watched him intently, re-establishing their eye contact as Trager trotted towards him. He trusted Trager just enough, since he knew the bastard didn't want to kill him. Not that he trusted him a  _lot_ , but he also recognized those pills, so he knew enough not to worry.

Miles opened his mouth, sticking his tongue out, a cheeky grin appearing on his lips. Trager reached up and placed both pills on Miles' tongue, slightly amused by his behavior. Miles closed his mouth and knocked them back. He forgot what they were called, but he knew what they did. 

“There you go, buddy.” Trager said softly, reaching up and running his hands through Miles' dark hair.

“Thanks, doc.” Miles teased. Trager chuckled a little, then leaned forward, brushing Miles' hair up, and kissed him on the forehead from beneath his mask.

“And call me in the morning.”

 


	2. Every Me and Every You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Grumbles* People are actually reading this, seriously *Grumbles about own fanfiction*  
> This chapter is mostly me vomiting exposition AGAIN but more specifically this time.

Miles woke with glassy, hazy eyes, the way they always were after he slept well. Trager wasn't there anymore, and he'd taken his instruments with him. Miles propped himself up, realizing that he'd neglected to put his shirt back on before he'd collapsed on his mattress and let the sweet sleeping pills take over while he stared into the endlessness of the ceiling. He didn't even care when he slept or for how long anymore, since he lost track of time in this place anyway. His side hurt a little, and he reached over to check his stitches. They were fine, still.

Miles rested his head on his hand, placing his weight on his elbow as he rolled over onto his non-stitched side. He glanced towards the small box containing everything he 'owned', now including his shirt and his jacket. He dug around in it for a moment, unfolding his clothes as he searched for his notepad. He pulled it out, flipping to the page with the folded-over corner, headed ' _Stupid Shit the Patients Have Called Me'._ He smiled a little as he read over them and his notes on each one.

  * _Nurse. A lot of people call me that. I guess I am sort of a nurse, though. About as much of a nurse as Trager is a doctor._

  * _Dog/Pet/Lapdog/Puppy. A lot of dog imagery._

  * _Stitches. Pretty common. -Also Patches, which I think is also connected to the whole 'dog imagery' thing because it sounds like a dog's name._

  * _Grim Reaper. Probably because I do so much disposing of Trager's dead leftovers._

  * _Frankenstein. Frankenstein's monster is what they're referring to; it's connected to the whole 'stitches' and 'patches' thing._

  * _Sally. Nightmare Before Christmas reference. I can appreciate the cleverness._

  * _Ragdoll. See 'stitches'._

  * _Eighter. Finger joke._

  * _Slut/Whore/Cocksucker/Trager's little bitch/Something similar about how much I enjoy fucking Trager. There have been some interestingly unique ones._

  * _Charon. I actually asked about this one. Apparently Charon is the name of a Greek mythological figure who ferried souls across the river Styx. So like the whole 'Grim Reaper' thing, but a bit more unique._

  * _The Vomiting Prince. God dammit, I throw up in one of the patient rooms ONE TIME and suddenly I'm the Vomiting Prince everywhere I go. Granted, I did throw up, lift my head, and then throw up again, and then Trager told me to stop and clean up after myself, and puked a third time while cleaning up after my own vomiting self. I was waking up off a whole lotta tranquilizer and I was crazy nauseous, and really shouldn't have gotten up at all, but I was being a stubborn asshole. I eventually told them that the next person to call me the Vomiting Prince (Or any variation thereof) would learn what it felt like to be the vomiting prince when I shoved one of Trager's scalpels down into his gag reflex. And I did. He threw up blood everywhere. It was quite satisfying._




His drift down nickname memory lane was interrupted by the sound of someone knocking on the door to his room, which had had the word 'Miles' scrawled onto it with a knife some time ago. “Doc?” Miles called sleepily, setting his note pad to the side as he continued to lean his head on his arm.

“'S me.” Doctor Trager replied.

“Come in.” Miles beckoned. Trager slowly opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind him.

“I see you had your seductive pose ready for me.” Trager joked, noticing how Miles had positioned himself.

“Mmm, you like?” Miles asked, shifting his legs a little to create an even further parody of a sexy pose.

“Of course.” Trager purred, moving over to crouch beside Miles' bed. Miles smiled at him, his stitched abdomen rising and falling as he breathed deeply. “Do these feel okay, still?” Trager asked, moving Miles' arm out of the way to gently touch his freshest stitches.

“The wound's still a bit sore.” Miles replied. “Doesn't hurt any worse than they usually do.”

“Hmm, it looks okay.” Trager noted. He moved his hands up Miles' chest, to a little line running beneath his left pectoral muscle. “These are absorbing just fine.” Trager continued. “Do you have any non-absorbable ones in?” He muttered, examining Miles' body. Miles gestured towards his back, and Trager twisted him over a little to look. “Yes, you do.” Trager declared, running his long, wiry fingers along Miles' spine until he found the spot he was looking for. He mumbled something unintelligible, furrowing his brow. “No, wait, I remember when I put those in. They'll need to come out soon.” He said audibly at last.

Trager pulled himself away from Miles, ruffling his hair once again. “I trust you slept well.” He declared, seeing Miles' drowsy appearance.

“Like the dead.” Miles replied, yawning briefly. “You know just what to prescribe.”

“I know you well enough to know what makes you tick.” Trager chuckled, just the slightest menacing edge to his voice. “You take a clock apart enough, you know where all the springs go.” Trager stood up again, his apron fluttering a bit as he did so. “You know, we've made so much progress, you and I.” Trager murmured, smoothly and sinisterly.

“Progress in what? How many times you can cut the same person open for no reason?” Miles sassed. He lifted himself up a little, rolling his legs off his bed.

“More progress than you could ever know.” Trager replied cryptically, in a tone slightly softer than his usual one. He leaned down, offering Miles his hand for support. Miles took Trager's hand and tried to pull himself up, staggering a little as he found his footing. He felt his head rush with diziness, and he almost fell right back over. Not that he should've been surprised. The recommended dose for those pills was up to one whole pill every 18 hours, and most people only needed half to fall asleep. Miles had knocked back two at once, and subsequently he still wasn't completely awake.

Miles grunted as he stabilized himself, not letting go of Trager. “Are you sure you're awake, buddy?” Trager asked. “Or do I need to cut back on your dosage?” He half-threatened.

“I've gotten up on more.” Miles retaliated. “I'll be fine.” He finally let go of Trager's hand, despite the fact that the world was still spinning a little.

“Good.” Trager pronounced. “You and I have got work to do.” Trager folded his hands behind his back and led Miles out of the room, hearing Miles follow him with shaky, stumbling steps. Miles fell against the door frame, regaining his balance. “Are you coming?” Trager questioned, looking back over his shoulder.

“Yeah.” Miles breathed. “I'll be fine.” He repeated.

“Hmm, are you sure you should be working in your current state?” Trager rasped.

“Fuck you.” Miles growled, still smiling his horrible smile.

“Save that for later, sweetheart.” Trager purred, turning his head forward again. Miles pushed himself off the doorway and followed Trager as quickly as he could without falling over. The world was spinning less now, but he was still shaking his head occasionally, trying to brush off the residual sleepiness. “We have a procedure to perform.” Trager finished, opening one of the hall doors. Miles slid up behind him, his vision finally clearing all the way, and staggered into the room.

“Now, do me a favor, buddy...” Trager began, shoving a wheelchair in Miles' direction. “Go get me a _patient_.”

“Ooh, I love it when you're vague.” Miles replied, with an unexpected lack of sarcasm. “You want someone from the beds, or fresh meat?” He asked, grinning almost evilly.

“Oh, don't go through all the trouble of hunting down new meat.” Trager answered, beginning to sharpen something that didn't look at all like a legitimate medical instrument. “Not with your new wound healing. Just bring me someone with...a nice face.” Miles' teeth glimmered a little in the harsh lighting, his grin extending into that 'teeth-bared' smile that developed when he got excited over blood.

“You got it, Doc.” He laughed darkly, taking the wheelchair and pushing it hastily out the door. He picked up momentum as he went, a smug little smirk placing itself on his face. He was thinking about a certain little group of particularly mouthy fuckers that he would enjoy tormenting.

“Guess what time it is!” Miles practically cackled as he wheeled the chair into the exact room he was looking for. He could almost smell the fear that shot through the patients' hearts, pricking like frigid needles under their skin.

“Hehe, Sally's back, trying to find a patient for Doctor Jack!” One of them giggled, in a melodic fashion, as was that particular variant's way. Miles pushed the wheelchair straight along the edges of the beds, scanning their faces with a malignant look in his eyes.

 _You'll do nicely._ He thought, smiling at a certain face that he had seen before. “Hello there, good sir.” Miles greeted, surprisingly eloquently. He received a glare in return. “Patches is back for you. He took his head out from underneath the doctor's apron for long enough to grace you with his presence.” The variant frowned at him, his breathing rate obviously speeding up in fear.

“I told ya! All of ya! I said ya should'a shut your rotten mouths!” Another oddly familiar voice shouted.

“Load up, buddy.” Miles hissed, mimicking Trager's voice. He seized the bound patient by his wrist, undoing his ties to the bed, glaring into his eyes. The variant began to struggle, clearly not so bold when actually faced with Miles. “Now, now.” Miles growled. “This will be much easier if you stay calm.” Miles put his other hand around the variant's throat, pushing up his jaw as he untied him.

He seized the patient, hearing him choke as Miles tightened his grip on his throat. He practically flung him into the wheelchair, feeling terrified hands claw at his skin, reaching for his stitches and scars, trying to find a weak spot. “You struggle again, you asshole...” Miles snarled, binding his victim's hands to the edges of the wheelchair.

The variant panted, sweat beading on his unusually smooth forehead. Miles balled up his fist and punched the bastard in the face. All natural anesthesia. Miles put his hands back on the handlebars, steering the wheelchair down to the room Trager was waiting in. Then came the part where the variant begged half-intelligibly; the whole _'Not me, someone else, please, I'll do anything you want, you don't really like the doctor that much, do you?'_ spiel. If only he knew how many times Miles had heard the exact same pleas, and how unfazed he was by them. Miles just punched him again and told him to shut the fuck up. There were some incredibly satisfying things about working for Dr. Trager.

Trager turned his metal-lined eyes towards the door as Miles came in bearing a whimpering patient. “Hmph, you call that a nice face?” Trager sneered. “Oh, well, nice compared to the others, I suppose.” He sighed, lifting the variant's chin with his knife. “They can't all be as cute as you.” Trager added, looking back up at Miles. “Be a dear and shut the door, will you?” Trager requested. “We wouldn't want to disturb anyone outside.” Miles stepped back and closed the door.

“Now, I have something very special in mind for you today.” Trager murmured, examining the variant's face. Miles slid behind Trager and over to where his medical instruments lay on their little steel tray. “Something I have not yet attempted before.” Trager feigned running his knife along the variant's face, planning his movements while speaking quietly to himself. “Miles, my dear, if you could calm our patient down a little, that would be nice.”

Miles punched him for the third time that day. “I like this job.” He declared giddily. And he did, sometimes. Maybe he did all the time; that would explain why he stayed there.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” Trager mumbled, his voice now barely audible, as his focus remained elsewhere. Miles assumed he was dismissed, and returned to his usual position between Trager and wherever his instruments happened to be strewn.

Sometimes he needed them, and sometimes he didn't. A lot of the time, Miles was just there because his very presence tormented the patients. Not that he particularly enjoyed watching what Trager did to them, no matter how horrible they were, but he knew his role, and he played it well. Sometimes he didn't even watch, he just stood there and averted his eyes.

A part of him hated to think that he'd gotten used to all the atrocities Trager committed on a daily basis, but another part of him (The larger percentage) no longer cared. As long as he was staying here, it was actually better that he had been conditioned to things like this. Being used to it didn't necessarily mean he enjoyed it, anyway.

Sometimes he couldn't even watch. Well, technically he could, and it probably wouldn't have even bothered him that much, but he didn't really want to. It depended on what Trager was doing. Right now, as he was slowly trailing his blade along the face of an only half-unconscious patient, Miles could stand it. But once it got to the point where Trager flicked his knife under the edge of that thin top layer of skin and began to work it away from the cut, then Miles chose not to keep watching. Seeing how much skin one could peel off a man's face before he died, Miles guessed. He also guessed that the answer was 'not very much'.

Trager growled a little as he worked, possibly upset by how much his patient was moving with being only half-unconscious. Miles was slowly ceasing to pay any attention, and he wasn't even pretending to watch anymore. He was staring at the wall, playing with what may have once been an actual scalpel, and thinking about various irrelevant things. Like how much of a mess this room was. Miles always thought _his_ room was in an atrocious state, until he visited the other rooms and remembered that it was actually pretty clean.

Only as clean as Miles wanted it to be, since he was in charge of his own space. Not that it was much of a space, but it was more than most had, so he took full advantage of that. Miles poked himself in the leg with the scalpel, feeling it prick him through his jeans. It was sharp as ever, most likely because Trager hardly ever used small, delicate instruments of that nature. He generally favored harsh brutality to any sort of rational medical procedure.

“Tsk, what a pity.” Trager said in mock sadness, breaking Miles' idle thoughts. “And we were making such lovely progress, too. I thought he might make it.” Miles turned his head back to spare a glance at Trager's poor experiment, noticing that Trager had actually done a fairly good job of gingerly removing most of the skin from half of that poor fucker's face.

“Dead already?” Miles asked, twirling the scalpel between his fingers again.

“A remarkable view.” Trager noted, turning his former patient's head over slightly. “But nothing I haven't seen before, really. I wouldn't call it a failure, though...” He murmured, using that low, focused voice that always reminded Miles of a heartbeat. “I think we can make this work in the future, you and I.”

“You and I?” Miles chuffed. “You did all the work.”

“You did plenty.” Trager countered, though he didn't specify any further. “Now, you get to do plenty more. Take this one out while he's still fresh; see if you can find anyone who wants it.” Miles smirked a little and sauntered lazily back over towards the wheelchair.

There was a surprising amount of commerce to be had with certain variants if you had something they wanted. Fortunately or unfortunately, the most valued resource in this place was generally human flesh. Miles was known as a harbinger of death, which in some places granted him worship as nothing less than a deity, and in others, fear as a stealer of life, a thief who filled Trager's cutting board.

He had nicknames out there, too, most of which were less entertaining than the ones Trager's patients gave him. Almost everyone called him 'Trager's boy' or 'the Nurse', which weren't quite as fun to respond to. It didn't matter too much, though, since his main role was pushing a wheelchair containing a fresh cadaver to a known territory where someone or some group of sniveling nutjobs would offer him something for it. Most of the variants were cannibals in some form, and they wanted the bodies so that they didn't have to hunt for a live one that would run away and struggle. The others... Well, Miles didn't ask what they planned to do with the corpse once they got it. He didn't care; that was their business, and Miles' business was what they were offering for it. The most common bid was a live body in exchange for a dead one, but almost as commonly they were willing to hand over some form of weaponry. Those few who managed to get their hands on stolen medical supplies had the uppermost hand in dealing with the 'Grim Reaper'.

Miles was generally observed walking through the halls with a body, either in a wheelchair or draped and bleeding over his shoulder. He had learned the layout of the building (Even keeping a crude map in his notebook), and he had also learned the territories. When humans who were this crude, violent, and delusional reigned over an area, their behaviors reverted to being downright animalistic. There were certain places that were well known to be inhabited by some of the more infamous residents, and these were generally avoided by the other variants, creating invisible boundaries and subsequently 'territories'. Trager's territory was the only one Miles was really familiar with, as most of the others he avoided. There were a few he ventured into on purpose, looking to offer them fresh meat and blood; those who had established ranges tended to have more to give him in return.

A few eager faces peered at Miles from around corners and through doorways, as though they could smell the blood from a mile away. “Hmm, whatcha got there, nurse?” A staggered voice asked, its owner huddling half-bound in the shadows. He was in free territory right now, which meant that the variants would be trailing him whether he liked it or not.

“Meat.” Miles replied, licking his lips.

“Hrr, I thought you ate all the doctor's leftovers.” A voice unfamiliar to Miles chimed in, as a small group of three variants emerged from the shadows.

“Not all of them.” Miles declared, showing absolutely no fear.

“H-He looks s-s-soft.” The variant who had not yet spoken added, staring at the corpse in the wheelchair while his body shuddered uncontrollably.

“Super soft.” Miles agreed. “Tender and half-peeled already.” One of them took a few steps forward, but the others kept him back.

“He needs-s-s s-something in re-return-n-nuh.” The stuttering variant managed to explain. “H-He likes-s drugs-s.” He hissed, almost giggling in the way he spoke. “Y-You do, don't-t-t y-you?” The variant continued, taking a few nearly collapsing steps toward Miles. Miles had learned to deal with creepy variants. They rarely managed to bother him anymore.

“Certainly.” Miles replied, his hand resting on the scalpel that was still in his left pocket. The first variant turned a little and scurried off into the side room, returning with a few vials of assorted unknown liquids. Miles seized them and looked them over, but he knew what they were almost immediately and he no longer cared. “You have a good eye.” Miles rasped, laughing a little. “Take your prize.” He added, shoving the useless dead body off of the chair and taking his leave. He didn't even bother to so much as look back over his shoulder. Their transaction was done; that half no longer mattered to Miles or his master.

Miles played with the cylinders on his way back, rolling them between his fingers and taking them in and out of his pocket. He doubted that those variants knew what they had, really. They just knew they'd found small, medical-looking cylinders of something that smelled strange and tasted strange, and thus most likely drugs.

Miles was happy to see them.

But he insisted he wasn't any sort of drug addict.

 

“You know, every time you leave, I always start to worry that you're not coming back.” Trager heralded as he watched Miles return to him.

"And every time you knock me out, I always start to worry that I won't wake up." Miles retaliated.

"Oh, now why would you worry, buddy?" Trager purred, following his usual habit of approaching Miles as quickly as possible. "It's like stealing, when you want to be discreet about it." He continued, running his hand along the edge of Miles' face. "I don't take anything that will be missed, and I don't do anything I don't know I can fix." Miles cocked his head away from Trager's hand, flashing him a sly smile. 

"I know." Miles said softly. "And do you really think I'd run away _now_ , with every single chance you've given me?"

"Hmm, you can leave at any time." Trager conceded. "Really, if you'd wanted to leave, you'd have left already." He continued, bringing his arms around Miles' shoulders. 

"And if you wanted to kill me, you'd've killed me by now." Miles nearly whispered, his forehead now brushing Trager's. "So I guess I'm here to stay." Miles brought his arms around Trager, savoring the sensation of his rough, leathery, very warm skin. Miles could feel his own fingers find every subtlety of Trager's muscles: what a bizarre, pleasant feeling. 

"Of course you are." Trager whispered, bringing his lean fingers back up to Miles' jaw, stroking it in an odd gesture of affection. "I need you here."

"Hmm, yeah, 'cause I do so much." Miles replied sarcastically.

"More than you could ever know." Trager said darkly, his nails brushing Miles' lips. "Are you sure you won't let me mess around with your face at all? A few tweaks here and there would be quite aesthetically pleasing." He continued, stroking Miles' jaw with his thumb. "Maybe stitches along the edges of the mouth, or the underside of the jawbone."

"'Cause everybody needs more of an excuse to call me 'Ragdoll'." Miles muttered, but not in an aggressive manner at all. 

"Hmph, out of all the things you object to..." Trager chuckled, continuing to examine Miles' jawline with his hands. Miles feigned a bite at his fingers. "You're feisty, aren't you?" Trager asked rhetorically.

"Must you ask?" Miles laughed.

"No." Trager replied. "I knew so already."

"Hey, you're the one in charge. If you wanted to shut me up, you could've cut my tongue out forever ago."

"Been there, done that." Trager dismissed. "Hardly original. And on top of that, it's half your charm. You're at least putting it to good use." Miles responded by sticking his tongue out in a childish manner. "Hmm, then you tempt me. Only you."

"Only me." Miles repeated, in a soft voice. Trager replied by nuzzling him, the metal in his face brushing against Miles' temple, and nudging his mask up just enough to kiss Miles on the lips. "Oh, don't you have anything better to do?" Miles asked, running his fingers through what was left of Trager's wiry hair.

"I'm afraid I don't see what I could be doing that's any better."


	3. Sarcasm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eddie Gluskin is mentioned in this chapter. Will he appear in this fanfiction? Who knows. Will there ever be a plot? Who knows. Will Miles ever put his shirt on? Actually the answer to that is no. I doubt it.  
> Asdfghjkl I'm just going to keep building up ridiculous levels of sexual tension between these two apparently I don't even. At least until I finally make myself resolve it (Or make myself *include* said resolution of sexual tension) - I'm still in denial okay.

“Then go lie down.”

“Lying down is boring. And I just slept for who knows how long.”

There were a few constants at Trager's. Not very many, but they were well known.

      1. _Miles has an excuse for everything. Even for things he actually wants to do._




“I just can't make you happy, can I?” Trager rasped, his sarcasm accompanied by the swinging of a highly non-surgical instrument.

“No.” Miles answered, gently touching his side as he breathed deeply.

      1. _Miles will boldly defend his excuses, no matter how stupid they are._




“Should I just stop trying?”

“Maybe.” Miles puffed out his cheeks discontentedly.

      1. _Miles is always cranky. Usually because he's always sore and always tired._




They were silent for a moment, until Miles sighed and angled his head towards the ceiling. “I'll go lie down if you stay there with me.” Trager sighed back, the sound reverberating against his surgical mask.

“Fine, you little shithead.” He grumbled, practically dragging Miles over to his bed. “Lie down, then.” Miles did as Trager commanded, gazing up from the mattress to watch him. Trager kneeled down at what would've been the head of Miles' little bed, coaxing Miles out of the way a little so that he could sit properly. Miles took his prompt and leaned his head back into Trager's lap.

“There we are.” Trager growled, petting Miles' hair.

“Thank you, doctor.” Miles crooned in a jokingly obsequious manner.

“Hmm, you're lucky I like you, you know.” Trager sighed.

“Very lucky.” Miles replied, closing his eyes.

      1. _It can always get worse._




“If I hadn't kept you here, who knows who you would have fallen in with, eh?” Trager murmured. “You should thank me for that.”

“ _Thank you, doctor._ ” Miles repeated, managing to sound even more pathetic than before.

“Don't pretend like you respect my authority.” Trager hissed, rubbing the side of Miles' head with his thumb.

“Mmm, but thank you, really.” Miles continued, his smile softening.

“Hmm, how heartwarming.” Trager murmured.

      1. _If it can get worse, Trager will make it worse. Unless you're Miles._




“I know. I'm disgusting.” Miles giggled. 

“Well, really, your life could be worse.” Trager continued, as thought Miles hadn't said anything. “You could've found someone much less forgiving.”

“Less forgiving than you?” Miles scoffed. “Who would've been worse?” Trager paused for a moment, stroking Miles' hair.

“Gluskin.” Trager answered at last.

“He's the groom, right? Haven't met him.” Miles replied. He'd been around the asylum quite a bit, and while he was sort of familiar with Eddie Gluskin and his territory, he very rarely ventured over there.

“That's for the better.” Trager replied. “If you had, you'd be dead.”

“Ooh, that bad?” Trager was silent again, just thinking and petting Miles.

      1. _Death is a gift. Unless you're Miles._




“Let's say that the difference between him and me is like the difference between a toddler pulling a dog's tail and an adult pulling a dog's tail.” Trager explained. “Just to hear it howl. The difference is that a small child might not know much better, and an adult does. But if the adult happens to meet one dog it likes, that it's excited to see, then perhaps it wouldn't pull that particular dog's tail. Now, if the child didn't know any better, they would do the same thing to a dog they liked. Hell, maybe they like all dogs. But imagine it instead with the darker matter of death. And human beings.”

“I get ya, I get ya.” Miles rumbled, nodding as much as he could in his position. This caused Trager to shift a little in an almost uncomfortable manner.

“Not that Gluskin doesn't love each and every one of his blushing brides.” Trager grunted, leaning back. “At least until they bleed to death when he cuts them open and/or stabs them repeatedly. Then they're worthless sluts who are just like all the others.” Trager chuckled darkly. “That's like getting mad at a dog for howling when you pull its tail.”

“Hmm, yep, I am lucky.” Miles purred deeply. “Imagine what would've happened if someone who was  _crazy_ had taken me in.”

      1. _Miles is actually exempt from most things._




“Hmph.” Trager scoffed. “Nobody else would've been able to deal with you. If anyone abducted you while you were out, they'd just bring you right back here anyway.” Miles didn't seem to be listening to Trager's authoritative rant. Miles' eyes were closed, and he was smiling contentedly.

“Mmmh, your crotch makes a nice pillow.” Miles sighed, rubbing his head against Trager's inner thigh.

“Ah, be careful there, buddy...” Trager grunted, taking his hands off of Miles' head. “Some people might take that as an invitation.” Miles responded by shifting and nestling his head further into Trager's lap. Trager glared down at him, as though trying to assess what purpose Miles could possibly have for doing that again. 

      1. _It's 99% likely that Trager is being sarcastic. The same goes for Miles._




“Were you listening?” Trager questioned, not exactly angry, but not exactly pleased either.

“Yep.” Miles replied very matter-of-factly. He opened his eyes and glanced up at Trager, turning his head back to look at him. “You said some people might take that as an invitation.”

“You've got some nerve there, sweetheart.” Trager warned, rather genuinely, which was unusual. Miles closed his eyes and nuzzled Trager's innermost leg again.

      1. _Miles and Trager love each other very much._




 


	4. Taste Your Beating Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Whispers* The sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this. Yep, I wrote this. I wish I regretted it.

“What's the matter, doc?” Miles teased, his knees around Trager's legs, sitting face to face with him as they both struggled to fit onto the width of the same wheelchair. “Not strong enough anymore? They make pills for that, y'know.” He cocked his head briefly, like he was gesturing towards something off to the side, which was something Miles was known to do when he was taunting someone.

“I'll have you know I'm plenty strong, thank you very much.” Trager huffed, clearly unimpressed by Miles' provocations.

“Hmm, are you, old man?” Miles rasped, arching his back suggestively.

“You're a bit frisky tonight, aren't you?” Trager purred.

“Ooh, what gave it away?” Miles asked rhetorically, wrapping his arms around Trager's shoulders and leaning in even closer. “What can I say, I'm just a kid.” Miles laughed. “I've still got the drive.”

“And you're assuming I have absolutely none left?”

“You haven't offered yet.” Miles replied with a shrug.

“Forgive me, but I just always assumed our relationship was more professional than that.”

Miles broke out into full-blown laughter. “Since when have you cared about professionalism?”

“You do have a point.” Trager agreed, examining Miles' body. “You haven't offered yet, either. Or are you just now getting that desperate?”

“Didn't know if you could.” Miles taunted, sneering.

“Are you going to continue to taunt me?” Trager growled, his visible eye gleaming.

“Just 'til you give in!” Miles laughed, thrusting his hand underneath Trager's apron.

“God dammit!” Trager muttered, attempting to seize Miles' wrist just a second too late. He could already feel Miles' hand grasping desperately at him, sending a long-forgotten sensation shooting through his body.

“Ooh, there you have it.” Miles purred, wrapping his fingers around the base of Trager's member as he quickly coaxed it into an erection. “You still got it, doc.”

“Maybe.” Trager rasped, gripping the arms of the wheelchair with a passion. He breathed deeply, maintaining sharp eye contact with Miles. Trager gritted his teeth as Miles gave him one long, slow stroke, smiling that stupid, smug smile. “Alright, then, you little _slut_.” Trager growled at last, his voice pricking upwards as he spat the word 'slut'. “Go on and finish what you started. Knees on the floor, buddy.”

Miles seized the edge of the wheelchair and struck his legs out to the floor, swiftly lowering himself to his knees. He grabbed ahold of Trager's cock again, shifting his apron to the side. “You know what you gotta do.” Trager rasped, moving one of his hands to Miles' head and threading his fingers through his hair. Miles grinned, sexual excitement overpowering most of his manual thoughts. He leaned forward and ran his tongue along the length of Trager's shaft, his every nerve pricking with anticipation.

Miles didn't even think about how repulsive he would've found this entire situation not too long ago. He barely even paused to think about the fact that he'd never done anything like this before. Neither really mattered now that he was already here.

“You're getting the idea.” Trager rasped in an encouraging manner. He pushed down a little on Miles' head, long fingernails scratching at his partner's skin. Miles panted deeply, strands of dark hair falling in front of his face. With one hand still wrapped around the base of Trager's cock, he licked it again, a quiver running along his spine.

Miles pushed just the tip of Trager's member past his lips, hearing him draw a sharp breath in response. “Yeah, that's it...” He muttered, stroking Miles' hair in an almost rewarding way. “Just watch you teeth, sweetheart.” He warned. Miles took his advice for future reference, easing in just a little bit more. He felt over-eager, excited, and decidedly aroused, for being on the giving end of things.

Miles toyed with him for a few moments, swirling his tongue around the head of Trager's cock. Trager pushed down on the back of Miles' head, a silent urge to hurry. The corners of Miles' lips turned up in a vague smile as he swallowed more of Trager, but not all he could handle. He would save that for later.

“God, I can't even remember how long it's been...” Trager nearly whispered, breathing deeply and harshly. Miles didn't know if he meant _this_ specifically or just sexual interaction in general, but either way was good for him. He stifled a moan in the back of his throat; Trager seemed oddly pleased by the vibrations it generated.

“Atta boy.” Trager hissed. Miles couldn't resist any longer; he buried Trager's cock as far back in his throat as he could without gagging on it, testing his limits. Trager attempted to hold back a moan of pleasure. He had been unusually quiet so far. Miles wondered if that was because his surgical mask was muffling the noises he made, or if he was manually stifling his moans. It sounded more like the latter.

“C'mon, make some noise for me.” Miles requested, temporarily drawing his mouth away from Trager. “Make this job worth something.”

“Alright, we've developed a reward system now.” Trager purred. Miles laughed a little and dove back in, filling his throat with Trager's strong cock. Trager finally let a real moan pass his lips, focusing on the way Miles' tongue felt while it traveled over his length.

Miles kept trying not to cry out as his head bobbed faster and faster, Trager's hands a constant presence among his brown mess of hair. He moaned loudly around his mouthful and furrowed his brow. He was hard, too, almost unbearably hard. He didn't remember when he got hard, but it really didn't matter anymore. Miles kept moaning, occasionally so much so that he had to stop in order to let his voice out.

“You're a crier, aren't you?” Trager grunted, pushing Miles back down. His answer had already been received. “Yeah, that's it...” He rasped. “You're such a good boy, Miles. Mmh, yes. Keep going.” Miles moved his head even faster, sucking back as hard as he dared. “ _Fuck._ ” Trager hissed. This was the first time Miles had ever seen Trager even remotely flustered. “You've done this before, haven't you?” Trager asked, stroking Miles' head.

“Not once.” Miles replied, tearing himself away for a brief moment.

“Hmm, where'd you learn it from, then?” Trager chuffed. “Or are you gonna tell me that you're just making it up as you go along?”

“I guess I've just got good intuition.” Miles chuckled, tonguing the head of Trager's cock. Trager groaned and pressed down on his partner's head again.

“You're doing...good.” Trager gasped, and Miles took a little shallow pleasure in seeing Trager's impressive control slip out of place. “God dammit, I'm real close.”

 _Close._ Miles was oddly entranced by the thought. The thought that what he was doing was so powerful; powerful enough to make Trager give up his usual air of authority over Miles. _Close._ He was going to come.

“Come.” Miles breathed, closing his eyes and hovering his mouth right over Trager's member. It was not really a plea, not really a command, but more of an idea that burst from Miles' brain. He opened his mouth and sunk Trager into him again, embracing the feeling of fullness in his throat. His tongue moved like a living thing, tracing the beat of his veins, begging silently.

“Ahh, fuck.” Trager hissed sharply, sinking his long nails into Miles' scalp. Miles could feel how close he was, the very essence of his tension, and it felt perfect.

Miles braced himself, arcing his spine, as his body tensed with unfulfilled pleasure. Trager yanked up on Miles' hair, keeping his mouth on the tip, and contracted his legs around Miles' neck. He threw his head back, practically pulling Miles' hair out of his head as he came. Miles sank his nails into Trager's legs in reaction to this assault on his senses. He slammed his eyes shut, and then the sensation was all taste, and then it was all the warmth traveling down his throat and creeping into his core.

“Ughh, you just gotta knock it back.” Miles groaned, wiping a stray drop of cum from his chin. “Like cold medicine.” He grunted.

“Ahha...You swallow.” Trager panted, his carved chest heaving as he took deep, ragged breaths.

“So I do.” Miles managed to utter. “'S pretty nasty. At least at first.” Trager caressed Miles' chin, staring deeply into his eyes. Miles gently eased Trager's apron back into its proper place. “But after you swallow it's okay.” Miles chuckled deeply. “Makes me feel all...warm.”

“I've heard as much.” Trager responded, still breathing heavily. He lifted the edge of his mask in order to get slightly better air. Miles petted Trager's leg, and Trager responded by taking his hand and playing with it.

“Nnhh...” Miles groaned, moving his free hand down to his crotch.

“Oh, don't you whine.” Trager reprimanded softly. “You'll get what you're in for.” He ran his finger along Miles' jawline. Miles stood up and leaned over Trager, brushing close enough to kiss him.

“That's the first time we've kissed since we got here.” Miles scoffed. “So much for foreplay.”

“We've still got a chance.” Trager murmured.

“It's not really foreplay at this point.” Miles retaliated. “You came already, you asshole.”

“Well...” Trager whispered, nuzzling the side of Miles' head and nibbling his ear. “If you want me again...”

“Again?” Miles asked, nuzzling Trager back. “Are you sure you're up to that, old man?” He teased. Trager licked his ear in response. “Ahh, that feels weird.” Miles grunted. Trager rubbed Miles' back, picking at his old stitches a little.

“Do you want me again?” Trager questioned, pulling away from Miles and looking him in the eyes.

“Yeahh.” Miles moaned. “Of courssse.” He panted, grinding his stifled erection against Trager's legs.

“You would get your recompense, too.” Trager clicked, moving his hand down to Miles' waist. “And I know you want it.” Miles groaned at the very thought, grinding himself into Trager again.

“You have _no idea_.” Miles whimpered.

“Ah, just give me a minute.” Trager ordered. “I'll be ready again soon.” He continued, kissing Miles on the cheek with the good part of his face.

“Mmm-hmm.” Miles purred. “Yeah, I'll give you a while. Y'know, 'cause you might be fossilized before you're hard again.” Trager narrowed his eye at him.

“How old do you think I am?” He muttered, not expecting a serious response.

“One hundred and ten.” Miles answered flatly. “Or, like, at least seventy.”

“I'm not even fifty.” Trager replied seriously, standing up and pushing Miles backwards a few steps.

“Well...” Miles began, wrapping his arms around Trager's shoulders. “Either way, you've got a lot of spunk for an old man.” He hissed suggestively, cocking his head. Trager caressed Miles' hips in response, nuzzling him and then kissing him. Miles let it happen. He'd gotten so used to kissing Trager that he doubted he could re-adjust to kissing someone with normal lips at this point.

“Mmh, I need you.” Miles stated impatiently. “Can't we hurry?” Trager moved his hands along Miles' body, exploring his stitches and his young, firm muscles.

“Take it easy there, buddy.” Trager purred. “Didn't you want foreplay anyway?”

“It's more like transition-play at this point.” Miles huffed. “But go ahead.” Trager smiled with the visible corner or his mouth, unexpectedly throwing Miles onto the floor.

“Really?” Miles chuckled. “On the floor?”

“Or against the wall.” Trager suggested. “Where else?”

“We could probably both fit on my mattress.” Miles replied. “It's slightly cleaner than the floor.” Trager pulled himself off of Miles and guided him over to Miles' bed, and into a spooning position. He then slid his hand along Miles' flank and down to his waist, where he unbuttoned his partner's jeans. “God...” Miles panted, feeling Trager start to unzip his pants. “Yesss.” He hissed.

Miles laid his fingers over Trager's as Trager stroked him through his shorts. Miles' hand drifted up to Trager's forearm, where he wound his fingers through the drip attached to it. Miles was extraordinarily lucky to be able to touch those sturdy little tubes at all, and even then Trager tended to tense up when Miles did so. But Miles kind of liked it. The live blood made it feel warm, and sometimes if he pressed on it just a little he could sense movement. Like holding a vein in his hand.

“Careful with that.” Trager murmured, resuming his slow stroking to keep Miles synchronized with his movements.

“I'm always careful with it, aren't I?” Miles asked rhetorically, thumbing idly at Trager's little blood tubes.

“I know you are.” Trager mumbled contentedly. “You're a sweetheart, aren't you?” He continued. Miles could feel Trager's breath on the back of his neck.

“When I'm patient.” Miles grunted.

“Are you trying to tell me something?” Trager teased. He chuckled darkly and slowly reached down Miles' shorts, drawing out his aching erection.

“Ohhohho...” Miles cried. “Yah, maybe.” He panted. “Oh God, I want you.” He turned his head, his nose brushing Trager's, and kissed him deeply as he ground against him.

“So _eager_.” Trager noted, pressing their foreheads together.

“Hmm, are you hard again yet?” Miles asked, moving his hand back to Trager's hip in a silent urge for him to hurry.

“My, my.” Trager muttered, nibbling Miles' ear. “Haste is getting the best of you, isn't it?” He sighed, slowing the pace of his strokes. “Slow down a little. Relax.” Miles took a deep breath, pushing his back against Trager's chest.

“Ohh, haven't I waited enough?” Miles groaned loudly, sliding his jeans down a little further.

“I don't know, have you?” Trager taunted. Miles gritted his teeth. He already knew what Trager was doing. He was trying to make Miles beg.

“Yes, I have.” Miles whined. “I've waited _too_ long.”

“For what?”

“Dammit...” Miles hissed. “Don't do this to me.” Trager laughed softly into Miles' ear. 

“Then tell me what you want.” Trager retorted.

“I want you.” Miles replied, an edge of anger to his voice.

“You've got me.” Trager responded flatly.

“I want you to shut up and fuck me.” Miles corrected with no small amount of sass.

“Do you, now?” Trager pressed.

“Come on, I didn't do this to you.” Miles growled. “Stop teasing me.”

“Oh, I'm just...reinforcing my position.” Trager murmured. He'd let Miles take control of him before, but now he was the doctor again, and Miles was just the nurse. Trager was in command. “I wouldn't say I'm teasing.”

“You're teasing.” Miles refuted. “I know exactly what you're doing.”

“And what would that be?”

“You're taking control.” Miles hissed. “Building me up. Making me want it. Trying to get me to beg.”

“So beg.” Trager laughed. “Get it over with.” Miles grunted and set his jaw.

“Please.” He sighed. “Please just do it, goddammit.”

“Oh, like you mean it, buddy.” Trager replied. “Anything worth doing is worth doing right.”

“ _Please._ ” Miles whined. “Come on, I'm _hurting_ over here.”

“If you're hurting now, then just you wait.” Trager rasped. “I'll show you hurting.”

“Big words.” Miles said, licking his lips. “Don't make promises you can't keep.” Miles was quickly turning Trager's tactics back around on him, which he was oddly proud of. “Right now you're all talk.” He could tell without looking or feeling that Trager was angered by this, which also pleased Miles. Their natural conflict between dominance was highly exaggerated in this situation, and they were endlessly feeding off of each other's tensions.

“You know what, sweetheart?” Trager grumbled.

“What?” Miles retaliated, turning to face Trager. Trager didn't answer, he just pulled Miles up and shifted him over, kissing his neck as he positioned himself on top of him. He wrestled Miles' remaining clothes off his legs, sliding his hands along his hips. He ground against Miles, who arched his back to fit against Trager's chest perfectly.

“There we go.” Miles purred. “You got it, doc?”

“Yes.” Trager rasped, nuzzling Miles from above. “But it's a process, you know.” He added, sliding his fingers along Miles' face. “Unless you're aiming for more pain.”

“I've handled pain.” Miles panted, his fingers nudging the newest stitches on his side.

“Different kind of pain.” Trager replied, kissing his partner's cheek.

“It's gonna hurt anyway, isn't it?” Miles asked.

“To a certain degree.” Trager answered. “But it'll hurt pretty bad dry.” Miles lifted his mutilated hand and stroked Trager's face, displaying his partially healed finger, which had been bandaged before.

“I can deal with pain.” Miles reassured him. “And I know you can dish it out.”

“Hmm, alright.” Trager whispered. “Are you really in that much of a hurry?”

“Are you _worried_ about me?” Miles laughed. “Seriously?”

“Maybe.” Trager muttered. Miles smiled at him and played with his drip again, pushing him back into a sitting position. Then Miles leaned against Trager and pressed his head into Trager's chest.

“I guess you do have a heart.” Miles said sweetly, stroking Trager's wires as though he could feel it. Trager embraced him rather unexpectedly.

“Maybe.” He repeated.

“I can hear it.” Miles whispered, closing his eyes and listening to Trager's heart.

“How does it sound?” Trager chuckled, petting Miles like he was a dog.

“Pretty.” Miles murmured. “It sounds good to me.” Miles opened his eyes and lifted his head. “But I'm not a doctor.” Trager rubbed his ears, continuing to treat him like a dog.

“Ah, come on, sweetheart.” Trager sighed contentedly, sliding his hands along Miles' thighs. “I'll give you what you want. I'll be gentle.”

“Aww, you're so sweet.” Miles joked, moving his hands down to Trager's ribs as he lifted his head away.

“Careful now. I might change my mind.” Trager warned lightly, his hands traveling back up Miles' legs.

“Oh, whatever, as long as you're giving it to me.” Miles responded. “I don't even care.”

“You will.” Trager said. “Trust me.” He kissed Miles, hands wrapped around his hips, pushing their bodies together. Trager lifted one of his hands and pressed his fingers against Miles soft lips, prompting him to open his mouth and let them in. Miles knew what to do, and he ran his tongue over Trager's fingers until Trager decided they were sufficiently slick.

Bracing Miles' hip with one hand, Trager found his entrance with the other one, pressing his index finger against it as a test.

“Watch your fingernails.” Miles ordered, rather fiercely.

“I'll be careful, I'll be careful.” Trager murmured. “Relax a little; that'll help.”

Miles did so, as much as he could, clinging to Trager the whole time. He could hardly savor the feeling of Trager's fingers inside him while he was still wary of those nails. “I'm not gonna hurt you.” Trager kept saying, softly and reassuringly. He wasn't, but he might. That was what was scary.

“ _Now_ you relax.” Trager scoffed, after removing himself.

“It's hard to relax.” Miles grunted. “Your fingernails are dangerous.”

“Out of all the things, my fingernails...” Trager laughed, shaking his head.

“It's not the nails, it's where they are.” Miles replied. “But it doesn't matter anymore, because we're _finally_ ready now.” Miles kissed Trager again, now so desperate that he could barely keep his lips focused. “I need you, doc. Like, right now.” Miles groaned, his brow furrowed intensely, moving Trager's apron away from his front.

“Then you can have me right now.” Trager replied, pushing Miles onto his back and against the wall a little. Miles supported his upper body with the wall and his box of belongings, and Trager supported Miles' hips with his hands. Trager dug his nails into Miles' skin a little as a warning while he pressed his cock against Miles' entrance.

“Yes, yes!” Miles murmured, his voice dropping off into a moan as he was penetrated.

“I've been waiting to do this to you for a long time...” Trager rasped, staring into Miles' eyes as he pushed himself in further. “Does this hurt?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Miles answered. “But it feels good. Don't you stop, now.”

“Don't you worry, now.” Trager replied, brushing Miles' hair out of his face and kissing him. “I have no plans to.” Miles made what sounded like a happy noise, his legs contracting around Trager's midsection. He was already begging, but silently, urging Trager with his body instead of his voice.

But he would beg. He knew already, as Trager shoved him into the wall, that he was still too eager, and Trager's long, slow thrusts would not be enough. “Ohh, yeah, come on, doc.” Miles panted, his chest heaving visibly with every breath.

“I have a name, you know.” Trager teased, playing with Miles' hair while kissing him softly. Miles moaned quietly in response.

“Yeah, your first name is 'doctor'.” He replied.

“Do you even know what my real name is?” Trager asked, smirking with the visible corner of his mouth. Miles was silent for a moment, either trying to remember or losing his concentration.

“Rick.” Miles answered at last. “Or Richard. Richard Trager.”

“Very good.” Trager hissed, rewarding Miles by pushing deeper.

“Ahhah, yes.” Miles whispered, chewing on his lip. His whole body ached with tension, arousal getting the best of him. He wanted it, and the small part of him that usually told him he shouldn't was no longer present. He didn't even think about it, because it didn't make him. All he cared about was Trager. Not even himself, just what Trager was doing to him.

Trager sunk his nails into Miles' flesh, an insignificant pain compared to everything else. “Yeah, there you go.” Miles panted. “Harder, harder!”

“You're still so eager...” Trager growled, yet he obliged Miles' request. Miles took one hand off the box he was supporting himself on and wrapped it around his cock, stroking himself almost viciously.

“You couldn't tell?” Miles asked rhetorically. He was eager. He couldn't even remember how long he'd been staying here with this sick fucker, but long enough for a handful of surgeries. And as fond as he'd gotten of Trager, they'd never been this intimate before.

It was a strange thought, now that they were. Miles didn't know how he'd gone so long without it; he was in a state of absolute bliss as Trager shoved into his trembling body. He was begging shamelessly by now, and quite loudly too. He was aware that he wouldn't last as long as he'd like to, but he'd stopped caring.

“Oh yeah, that's the spot! Right there!” Miles cried, his legs twitching as they nearly constricted Trager's body. “Ahhah, you got it, doc...” He whined, his face flushed and bright with early sweat.

“Is it?” Trager hissed, giving several short, quick thrusts to tease the same spot repeatedly.

“Yes!” Miles screamed, hot energy shooting through his core like a bolt of lightning. He stroked himself slower for a moment, teasing himself, savoring every second. Trager leaned forward, raising Miles' hips a little as he adjusted his hands. Where his fingernails had been, there were now small, symmetrical pock marks in Miles' flesh. He dug them back in as soon as he had re-situated his hands, managing to break skin this time. Miles closed his eyes and leaned his head back as minute drops of blood welled around Trager's nails.

“Are you close already?” Trager hissed, curving his spine and pressing his head against Miles'. Miles could almost see his lungs swelling and contracting as he breathed.

“Y-Yeah...” Miles stuttered.

“Good.” Trager responded, looking exhausted for a moment.

“Careful.” Miles sneered. “Don't throw out your hips, old man.” Trager glared at him again, sighing deeply. Miles grinned. “Aw, come on. You can do it, doc.” Miles leaned forward and kissed him hard, his tongue brushing Trager's teeth. “Heh, nobody likes a quitter.” Miles breathed, nuzzling Trager affectionately. He knew what he was doing, and that was giving Trager something to prove.

Trager pushed himself forward, as deep as he could go, his fingernails tearing crimson channels in Miles' flesh.

“Ohhh, yes!” Miles screamed, his entire body trembling as he continued to stroke himself. “Make me bleed!”

Miles had a moment where he stopped to think about what was occurring. He was lying on a mattress against a wall in a room that reeked of putrefaction, the floor tainted with countless unknown substances, the walls seeping the scent of decay, and he was begging a psychopathic doctor who was like twenty years older than him to fuck him. Not just that, he was getting off to it, urging him harder, faster, and deeper, even as he tore long, bleeding scratches into his legs.

And he didn't care. He wanted it. He loved it. He _needed_ it.

“You like it rough?” Trager asked, as a few drops of blood began to leak from Miles' fresh scratches.

“Y-Yess...” Miles stammered, trying to catch his breath. “Ahhah, come on!” He cried, with all the force in his lungs. If he hadn't been constantly pleading for more, it would've sounded an awful lot like he was being slowly tortured. It was probably better for the patients to think that that was what was happening.

“You're close, aren't you, buddy?” Trager hissed. Miles seemed like he was trying to reply, but he couldn't form coherent words anymore, so he just uttered a wordless scream. His open scratches stung as they were invaded by salty sweat, and his panting practically turned into hyperventilating. Trager closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, listening to the sweet sounds Miles was making as he approached his climax.

Miles swiped his thumb over the head of his cock, feeling a sticky drop of precum. It all funneled down to this: the unquantified amount of time he'd spent with Trager, and every kiss, every stare, every nuzzle, every affectionate word of spite, every last moment of unabated tension.

Miles could feel it in his toes first. He curled them over, his legs convulsing as they straddled Trager, feeling the sensation creep through his body. It felt like needles; tiny, hot needles, one for every single nerve in his body. It overtook him in a split second, and he threw his head back. No words were accurate; no vulgar swear he knew could express the way he felt, so he reverted back to uttering another long, wordless cry. He didn't know he had that much power in his lungs until that very moment. He'd never screamed like that. He hadn't screamed anywhere close to that loud when his fingers were getting cut off.

It didn't even matter that Trager got to come twice and Miles only came once, because he'd never had an orgasm like that in his life. He kept screaming, barely aware of his own movements, his body racked with spasms. “ _Fuck._ ” Trager hissed. He let go of Miles' legs, smearing blood from his scratches, as Miles' endless cry of pleasure brought him to shattering. “ _Fuck!_ ” He snarled louder; as he came he arched his back, highlighting his spine against his thin skin.

Miles would've come again if he wasn't just barely finished coming in the first place. Trager seized him by his flanks, now almost on top of Miles instead of in front of him, taking control of his slack, aching body. He practically collapsed on top of Miles, embracing him and pulling himself down. He nuzzled the side of Miles' head, his breathing deep and raspy, and let Miles descend.

Miles' body almost burned. He could hardly bear to move aside from the act of pushing air in and out of his lungs. Oh, forget seeing stars. He didn't know what he was seeing, but it was far beyond anything as petty as stars. Trager was whispering in his ear, stroking his stomach with the back of his hand, trying to calm him a little. Miles groaned until he found his voice again, and the first word he managed to form was “ _Doc..._ ”

“Hmm, I trust you liked that.” Trager rasped, nudging Miles' forehead with his own.

“Y-Yeah...” Miles stuttered, still panting. He shifted a little, realizing that he was now completely filthy. “Ahh, God, I've...I've never...” Trager smirked, tracing his index finger along the underside of Miles' jaw, prompting him to close his eyes.

“You're so pretty when you come.” Trager whispered. “If I could hear you make sounds like that every night of my life...”

“Well, you could...” Miles replied, turning his lidded eyes towards Trager.

“Ooh, you are a little slut, aren't you?” Trager chirped. "Always eager."

“God, if it gets me there like that every night...” Miles laughed, a soft, almost injured aura about him. “Can't believe we hadn't had sex before tonight.” He grunted, pulling Trager's mask up a little and kissing him briefly. “I guess everything they say about me is true now, isn't it? Not that I cared in the first place.” He stared into Trager's eyes, blinking tiredly, and wrapped his arms around his shoulders. “I should probably at least try to get clean.” Miles continued, rubbing Trager's back a little as he spoke.

“Go, then.” Trager urged, nudging Miles away. He pulled himself off the mattress, Miles following suit. Miles doubted he would have much success, but it wasn't like there was an abundance of clean water to wash himself with. He generally cleaned himself by wiping himself off with tattered sheets from who-knows-where.

Once Miles had scurried around enough and gotten himself to some semblance of cleanliness, he returned to his bed and barely remembered to put his pants back on. Trager was still there, leaning against a familiar wheelchair, practically laughing at Miles.

“Are you laughing at me for wearing pants?” Miles questioned, setting his teeth.

“Yes.” Trager replied. Miles tried to think of a retort, but nothing valid came to mind, so he just crossed his arms and re-directed his train of thought.

“God, I need a cigarette.” Miles groaned, changing the subject. “I haven’t had a damn cigarette in so long, seriously.”

“Well, you could go scrounge for some.” Trager offered. “But I can’t guarantee you’ll find any that haven’t been claimed yet.”

“I’m pretty good at bargaining.” Miles replied with a smirk. “Plenty of practice.”

“Yes, but bargaining would require that you have something to give them in return.” Trager rasped. Miles leaned his head back further.

“I could get something.” Miles retaliated.

“Hmm, get it on your own.” Trager hissed. “I’m not operating with intention to kill just because you want a cigarette.”

“Oh well.” Miles sighed over-dramatically. “I guess I’ll have to give myself a different kind of chaser.” God, he was tired. He could use something to take the edge off. He leaned his head back up, making as if to stand, but decided against it.

“Can you walk there, buddy?” Trager chuckled. “Or do you need me to get you something?”

“I can do it myself.” Miles insisted. “I’ve gotten up after worse.”

“Huh, you didn’t sound so sure _during_.” Trager scoffed. Miles grabbed ahold of the wall and hauled himself to his feet.

“Shit.” Miles muttered. “I’m gonna be sore as hell.”

“You asked for it.” Trager sneered.

“It was worth it.” Miles declared, stretching his arms over his head.

“Do you still feel sticky?” Trager asked. “You’re not actually clean, you know.”

“I’m okay.” Miles answered, locating his box and opening it. He’d banged it up a bit leaning against it so much, but that made it the same as everything else in here. He was looking for a little glass bottle, which Trager had given to him as an allowance. Not that it mattered, since Trager would only use it on him anyway. He was also looking for a unique needle, which was reserved for Miles’ use only. And he knew how to use it. He didn't really have any actual skills as a nurse, but he could make a tourniquet out of just about anything. As long as he could get the end in his mouth and pull it tight enough. And he could find a vein, and open a vein. “I got it, y’know, doc.” Miles grunted, looking back to Trager.

“I know.” Trager replied. “And I’ve got you.”

“What, you don’t trust me or something?” Miles asked casually, filling his syringe with caution as he readied his other arm.

“I trust you.” Trager said. “But you’re reckless and you’re stupid. I don’t want you to end up killing yourself on accident.”

“I can do this.” Miles assured him, holding up the syringe of crystal-clear tranquilizer, as though for approval. “You don’t have to worry about a thing.”


	5. Paralyzed (By the Same Old Antics)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but it really needs to be separate from the next one for numerous reasons. The distance is important.

Not a thing.

Aside from the fact that Miles couldn’t move.

Well, he could move his eyes. Sort of. It blurred his vision, and it was more of twitching than actual coordinated movement, but that was all he could do. He hadn’t managed to put himself in a state like this for a long time, which was good, because he didn’t really want to be there.

He was properly tranquilized. Aware of his surroundings, but unable to interact with them. Like his entire body had fallen asleep and his brain was still awake. Absolutely amazing.

He heard a knock on his door, but he couldn’t even speak to respond. He assumed it was Trager, since nobody else ever knocked on his door, and if it _was_ Trager he would come in anyway. Sure enough, it was Trager, and he came in anyway.

“Are you alive there, buddy?” Trager asked, slinking over to where Miles was collapsed like a murder victim against the wall. He held Miles’ eye open with his thumb and index finger. “Yeah, your eyes are moving. You’re alive.” He sniggered darkly. “Good job there, buddy, paralyzing yourself.” Trager purred, patting his shoulder. “You make yourself a pretty little opportunity for me. Now, you wait right there. Don’t you move a muscle!” He cackled, striding back out.

Miles didn’t move a muscle. Not even when Trager returned with several terrifyingly shiny objects wrapped in a little piece of cloth that may have once been sanitary. He closed the door quietly and slid over to Miles, unwrapping his instruments and setting them on the floor. Then Miles lost sight of them, because he could only see what was directly in front of him and slightly angled down.

He could see Trager, but he lost sight of Trager’s hands as they pressed against his chest. “A curve here, a straightway there…Ugh, hate stitching curves, but I’ll have to make a few sacrifices for our love, I guess.” He was starting to use that irresistible heartbeat voice, which felt almost like a physical presence to Miles. “I’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this for a long time, you know. This will be perfect for us.”

Perfect.

It took a moment for him to draw out a small, sharp tool from his now-invisible wrap. It looked like everything else Trager used for operating, which meant it was pretty scary. Miles tried to relax his panicked, semi-lucid mind, knowing that Trager had never really hurt him before. He told himself he would be fine, but it was hard to believe it when he knew that Trager was starting to cut into his flesh and he couldn't feel it.

“You're so pretty, buddy.” Trager whispered, petting Miles' arms, where he knew Miles could see it. “Such a good boy.” He chuckled. Miles realized that Trager was, in fact, trying to comfort him. Trying to comfort him while carving up his chest. “There we go.” Trager kept murmuring, kissing Miles' nose. “There's a good buddy. Good boy.” And still treating him like a dog, because apparently that was the only way Trager knew how to express affection.

The mental agony Miles experienced then and there was worse than pretty much anything he'd ever felt. Physically, he couldn't feel a thing. He saw blood, but he couldn't feel pain or even the sensation of his flesh moving. Trager kept speaking quietly to him, kissing him and petting him even though he knew Miles couldn't actually detect the sensation. It was only slightly reassuring in light of Trager visibly performing surgery on him.

Miles' heartbeat was being increased by fear, to a very small degree, which was what Trager was trying to counteract. He was trying to bring Miles down, daubing the blood from his cut. Miles could see the bottom, a straight line, and two curved lines forming an edge. He didn't know what Trager was doing in there, but he guessed it wasn't good. It involved Trager's hands and sharp tools, so it was probably terrible.

Miles' entire mind was fighting against itself, telling him _'fight or flight, fight or flight'_ but neither was possible. So then it was emotional fight or flight. Fight was what he was trying to do, with fear and anger, but he had to change it to flight, with calmness and self-assurance. Trager wasn't going to kill him. He was doing alright.

“Oh, poor baby.” Trager rumbled, petting Miles' flanks. Perhaps in a pang of sympathy, Trager leaned his hands up and delicately closed Miles' eyes. That almost made it scarier.

At least until he passed out.


	6. Instead of Stressed, I Lie Here Charmed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well it took me forever to write this, it isn't even that long. Despite the fact that this fanfic is 90% Miles Upshur passing out you people are still reading it, so enjoy, you little weirdos.

When Miles woke up, the first thing he processed was pain. It was a familiar kind of pain, a deep, lingering soreness, perhaps more intense than he'd ever felt it. But he could feel. He lifted his hand, glad that he could move at last, and touched his chest where he felt the most pain. Another jolt of pain raced along his incision, and he blinked and tried to take stock of his surroundings.

Nothing was really different, except for that fact that there was a little extra blood over by his bed. Trager wasn't there, which meant that Miles had likely been passed out for quite some time. He tried to lift himself up, feeling dizzy for a moment, and looked down at his chest, wondering what hurt so much.

Oh, he should've been mad.

But, at that moment, the door before him creaked open, and Trager brushed in, his eyes glittering with a unique brand of sadistic joy when he noticed that Miles was awake.

“Mornin', buddy.” He purred sweetly. Miles didn't draw his eyes away from his chest.

He should've been mad. He should've screamed _“The fuck am I, your little arts & crafts project?” _or at least a well-placed _“Fuck you!”_. But he didn't.

There, in the broad upper center of his chest, was a heart. It took Miles a moment to recognize it, for a number of reasons. First of all, the heart didn't close completely at the top, leaving a little space between the two arches. Secondly, there was a fairly long, straight line leading down from the bottom corner of the heart, which confused Miles' distorted perception for a moment. _A bleeding heart, then_. He thought. He lifted his hand and placed it against his chest, finding the heart shape it to be about the size of his fist, not counting the added straight line of stitching below.

It was still fresh, the area around the incision a soft, healing pink. It looked clean and healthy, though, so Trager had been quite careful, and probably relatively gentle.

“Do you like it?” Trager asked, noticing that Miles was just staring blankly at his chest. “I hope so. It was a bitch to sew, but I did it just for you, sweetheart.”

 _Did_ he like it?

Yes. Miles thought it was strange, but somehow when he ran his fingers over that incision, the terror of the surgery itself faded, and it was replaced by the kind of giddy happiness that a schoolgirl would feel over a love note. After all, Trager might as well have tattooed 'I love you' onto his chest. This, right here, was not a wound. It was a token of affection, in the only way Trager knew how to express it: with something that would normally be considered harm. Every time Miles looked down at himself, he would be reminded that he was loved.

And even when the stitches grew weary, and the wound closed itself, perhaps it would leave a scar. A permanent marker of Trager's love for him. This was as good as a wedding ring for them.

“Yeah.” Miles replied, quite slowly and in a delayed manner. “It's beautiful.” He mumbled, clearly not completely coherent yet. “It's really not like you to be this sentimental.”

“Ah, I did it for you.” Trager dismissed. “I'd had the idea for a while, I thought it would make you feel nice.” Trager crouched in front of Miles, touching two of his fingers to the gap between the arcs of the heart.

“Oh, you're sooo romantic.” Miles purred, blinking his sleepy eyes. “Well, I hope you like it too, because you're gonna have to stare at it.” He eyes closed for a moment, and he drew a deep, sore breath. Trager kissed his forehead and nuzzled him lovingly.

“Are you doing alright?” Trager whispered.

“Mmm-hmm.” Miles rumbled. “Just coming down.” He added.

They had both developed an affinity for the way Miles was after surgery. He was sort of tired, quiet, like he was just waking up for a long time, and a strange soreness hovered over him. It wasn't entirely even a soreness, but really some sort of delicate tenderness. He seemed very soft, and delicate, like any touch would hurt him, but he would deal with it anyway. He took those deep, heaving breaths that taught his new wounds how to move with his body, and they were always kind of uncomfortable at first.

“You look like you're gonna fall right back to sleep, buddy.” Trager commented, stroking Miles' hair. He looked into Miles' heavy-lidded eyes with unusual sympathy written on his face. “Did I scare ya there?” He asked concernedly.

“Probably.” Miles drawled. “But I don't even remember much. It was pretty scary, but I passed out pretty early. I think. I dunno. Maybe I'll remember more when it wears off.” He yawned. “I'm still really tired.”

“I figured you wouldn't be awake for long.” Trager said, wrapping his arm around Miles' shoulder and hugging him. “Do your thighs hurt at all?” He continued.

“Hmm?” Miles grunted. “Oh, they're, like scratched or something, right? Well, maybe they hurt. I don't know. I can hear anything over the pain in my chest.” Trager laughed very quietly at Miles' babbling.

“You really should go back to sleep.” Trager instructed.

“ _Nooooo._ ” Miles whined. I wanna _stop_ sleeping.” His eyes remained closed despite his pleas, and Trager settled in beside him.

“Then just stay here 'til you come back down.” Trager retaliated. “Either way, you're not going anywhere in your current state. Miles groaned childishly, pressing his head against Trager. Trager took one of his index fingers and began silently tracing the outer rim of the heart shape on his chest. Miles continued to babble and mumble quietly, becoming nearly incoherent at points. The repetitive motion of Trager outlining the heart stitches on his chest soothed him, lowering him even further, until eventually, with a shuddering sigh, he slipped back into unsteady sleep, supporting himself against Trager's chest and listening to his soft heartbeat.

 


	7. Shut Up, Nurse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated okay please don't eat me  
> Oh God I don't know what I'm doing with this fic anymore  
> They're going to have sex again  
> Why

Miles strode around with a lazy, jaunting walk, his jeans hanging loosely over his hipbones like he hadn’t bothered to actually pull them up. The hint of tan in his pale skin had risen to the surface, even in dusky hospital lighting, but it was just faint enough to look like sickly jaundice instead of natural olive tint. He brushed his hair back, noticing that it had grown quite greasy, and made a mental note to wash it sometime soon.

Despite living in an insane asylum, Miles liked to at least keep a scrap of personal hygiene. Most of the sinks in the bathrooms still worked, and though the water that came from those wasn't exactly well-maintained, it was still the cleanest water available. It was a little awkward to wash oneself with water from a sink, but sometimes Trager helped him. Most of the time he was washing only his hair, his hands, or a wound, and it wasn't really a big deal.

Miles played with a lock of his hair as he strode through the dilapidated halls, smirking already as he thought of all the comments he was about to receive. He puffed out his chest, wincing just a little at the pain, and strode through an illuminated doorway. A loud whistle came echoing in from the patient room. “Helllooooo nurse!” A gruff voice hailed in conjunction. Miles sauntered forward lazily.

“’ay, we missed ya!” A hoarse-voiced variant cheered.

“Didja, whores?” Miles sneered, bringing out his inner Chris Walker for a moment.

“We thought Trager'd finally done away with ya.” The same patient growled.

“Well, you just aren't that lucky.” Miles purred smugly.

“D-Don't talk to him!” Another one yelped out of nowhere. “D-Don't t-talk to him...T-Trager w-won't like y-you...” Miles laughed uncontrollably.

“Oh, I love my job.” He giggled, folding his arms.

“Did he cut your little heart out?” A new variant hissed. “D-Did he? Did he make you just like him, Ragdoll? Heartless?”

“Yep.” Miles replied. “Don’t need it, don’t have it.” That was an oft-forgotten rule here in Trager's territory, but nonetheless present.

“Aww, what a pretty set ‘a stitches ya got there.” A particularly surly variant jeered. “Why don’t you come a little closer so that I can fix ‘em up?”

“And how do you figure you’re gonna do that?” Miles challenged. “With your damn teeth, you nasty little fucker? Well, come and get ‘em.” He pronounced, fixing the mutilated variant with a deadly stare. “Haven’t you and your useless carcass been here long enough?” Miles growled. “Just you try to get me. I’m sure your legs will serve you well.”

“Ooh, someone’s cranky today.” He mumbled. “Poor little bitch.” Mile stopped and just glared at him, but Miles’ anger quickly broke into a lean smile, with grew wider as he began to laugh. His laughter only increased in frequency and volume, soon filling the room and creating a powerful air of fearful confusion.

“You’re hilarious.” Miles squeaked, rubbing the watery corners of his eyes. Before anything further could be said, he was interrupted.

“Miles!” A raspy voice called, turning heads both towards and away from it. Now, Trager’s ability to whistle was decidedly poor, but he could click his tongue at quite an impressive volume. “Here, boy!” Trager beckoned, a sadistic little laugh glittering in his eyes. Miles threw himself at Trager’s feet, making a big show out of rubbing his head against Trager’s leg and panting like a dog. This elicited not even a single sarcastic catcall from the room, since most of the patients were too overwhelmed by fear.

“There’s a _good buddy_.” Trager praised in a de-humanizing manner, scratching the side of Miles’ head affectionately. Miles shot a smug glare back at the patients, nuzzling Trager’s leg and making contented dog noises. “Come on, boy.” Trager clicked, pulling himself away from Miles, who scrambled to his feet and trotted after Trager, taking only a second to stick his tongue out at the mutilated variants strapped to their filthy little beds.

“I thought I would get you out of there before it got much worse.” Trager laughed as he led Miles down a creaking, aching hallway.

“Pfft, I can deal with it.” Miles replied. “It’s almost fun, actually.” He slicked down his hair again, feeling oil catch on his fingers and sneering in disgust.

“Well, I can't imagine _why_ they might hate you.” Trager scoffed sarcastically, pausing to let Miles catch up to him.

“They're just jealous because they think I'm getting laid, and they're not.” Miles grunted, looking down at his fingers and moving them awkwardly, bizarrely intrigued by how his hands functioned with pieces missing. Though, technically, he _was_ getting laid now. Or he had. Maybe it was continuous.

“Hey, doc?” Miles interjected, breaking whatever concentration Trager'd had going.

“Yes, sweetheart?” Trager purred.

“Would you fuck me again, or was that, like, a one-time thing?” Miles asked bluntly, lowering his hands and turning his attention back towards Trager. Trager adjusted his rigid, malformed glasses lens and smiled at Miles in amusement.

“No.” He drawled. “You're disgusting. I _definitely_ don't want to come all over your face and listen to you purr, you little slut.” Trager spat, folding his arms behind his back and staring down at Miles.

“So we're on, then?” Miles snickered, nuzzling his head beneath Trager's chin. Trager pawed at the tender spot around Miles' incision and kissed him softly on the forehead.

“You have work to catch up on first.” Trager ordered, patting Miles on the back before he took off again. Miles was lost for a moment, a bit offended by the sudden loss of Trager's warmth next to him. He raced after Trager at a brisk pace, knowing roughly where they were going and knowing that it didn't really matter overall.

It was honestly a pretty normal day for Miles. For his first operation of the day, he held a variant's arm out while Trager hacked it off at the elbow using a bonesaw. Then he injected a syringe full of air into another variant's bloodstream to see if he would die. He did die, but the results may have been muddled because Miles was also strangling the guy at the same time. Oh, well. What can you do?

He strode past a number of patients who glared fiercely at him or made jeers about his new set of stitches, but he took in in stride. He wore his heart on the outside of his chest with reddish-brown pride, even going so far as to publicly admire the way all those shades of pink and peach and crimson blended together.

It made him feel emotional in an absolutely disgusting way. He knew that shouldn't have been how he felt, but...

It had been that way from the beginning. He'd always felt the wrong way about everything Trager did to him. Was this love? Maybe. He didn't really have a point of reference anymore.

Miles was barely paying attention to anything that was going on around him. He was lost in thought for the most part, sometimes so much so that he completely missed taunts that would've been fun to respond to. He was thinking about Trager, about his bleeding heart, and about sex. A lot more about sex than the other things, really. More than he wanted to.

But that was that.

Trager noticed that Miles was clinging to him. When Miles' arms were coated up to the elbows in blood, he was still practically pawing at Trager's chest and nibbling at his lips like a subservient dog. Trager kept him at a certain distance, probably just to tease him because he knew that Miles was secretly really horny. The only gift he gave was a moment of gently pushing a few strands of Miles' hair out of his face.

Aside from that, he was way too focused on his work. More so than Miles had ever seen him before, and deep down inside him a frustrated temporary hatred began to boil because he knew that Trager was ignoring him on purpose. He was pretending to be diligent in order to make Miles lose his mind, and it was working.

Miles would occasionally stop what he was doing, be it cutting or tightening a tourniquet or pushing a wheelchair, and breathe slowly. His chest ached; there were no two ways around it. But it was worth it, he told himself. Worth it.

He'd never had a day this long. Never one that droned on with sort, silent, disinterested replies. He had never found viscera so dull, but suddenly it was. As dull as the bleak, fading walls in this place. As dull as frustration could make it, until he had the chance to press his head beneath Trager's chain again and press his lips to his neck, tasting his pulse where the was no skin to cover it. Beautiful. It made him understand bloodlust, suddenly. The desire to taste blood, to feel it on your skin. He'd acknowledged it before, but never felt it himself.

He didn't even realize that he was running his tongue along the tender veins in Trager's neck until Trager began to slowly push his face away.

“Eager, buddy?” He asked, scratching at Miles' oily hair. “Hmm, your hair's dirty, isn't it? Do I need to give you a bath?” Miles huffed and nuzzled Trager with irritation written on his face.

“No.” Miles grumbled. “After.”

“After what?”

Miles stared firmly into his eyes, but Trager did not relinquish the cold grip of his taunt.

“After we're done.”

“Done with what?”

“Sex.”

 


	8. Bloody Good Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at this pos finally updating.  
> Ugh I kinda hate the last part of this but I needed to update and get on with the next plot turn.  
> More sex.

Trager cradled Miles's head in his hands, feeling the others' disfigured hands paw at his legs eagerly. “Now, now, sweetheart.” Trager reprimanded softly. “Don't get too excited there.” Miles groaned impatiently, gazing up at Trager with pleading eyes.

“Come on, dammit.” Miles grunted. “I'm trying to suck your dick, and you're telling me to hold off?” Trager pressed his leg against Miles' chest, forcing him back a little, and planted his foot firmly in Miles' crotch, the coarse denim rubbing against Trager's thin-skinned sole. A look of unbridled, jaw-set, cold anger clouded over Miles' eyes.

“Don't. Fucking. Do it.” He hissed sharply, grabbing ahold of Trager's leg.

“What are you gonna do about it, buddy?” Trager taunted with a sneer peeking out from underneath his mask. Trager pressed his foot down just a little, just enough to cause Miles' hands to scramble over his leg in desperation.

“Fuck you.” Miles snarled. Trager responded by stepping down harder and folding his arms calmly behind his back. He maintained stiff, tall posture and unshatterable composure while Miles stared pathetically up at him.

“You're so mean, little buddy.” Trager declared tauntingly, the subtle changes in the force of his stepping utter agony to Miles. Miles gritted his teeth and whined, sinking his nails into Trager's leg.

“Doc...” Miles snarled, not breaking his hateful eye contact.

“Tch!” Trager reprimanded, like Miles was a misbehaving dog. “Ah, be nice, buddy.” He rasped, pressing harder.

“That fuckin' hurts!” Miles gasped. “Ow, ow, okay stop it, doc.” He panted. Trager relaxed a little, but did not release. Miles uttered a long, multi-noted groan, his body shivering a little. Trager angled his foot and sunk his heel into Miles' crotch, eliciting confused panting from Miles, who wasn't sure if this felt good or bad. “You win, alright?” Miles shouted. “You're the boss! You're the boss!” He cried, grabbing onto Trager's leg like his life depended on it. “Please, okay?” Miles cried, feeling Trager step even harder just to taunt him.

“Hmm, you had enough there, buddy?” Trager chuckled. After a moment of agony, Miles squirming desperately in his grasp, Trager lifted his foot and Miles moaned at the sensation of sweet release.

“Oh, god fucking damn it.” Miles gasped, still clinging to Trager. “You're a fucking bastard.”

“Hmm, just making sure you know who the boss is.” Trager purred, ruffling Miles' hair. “Now, you want your taste, sweetheart?” Miles glared at him again, grabbing fistfuls of his apron.

“Pfft, you don't deserve it, asshole.” Miles scoffed.

“Oh, I'll pay you back, sweetheart.” Trager purred, rubbing Miles' neck. “I promise ya.” Miles growled quietly, but his hands nonetheless found their way to the upper part of Trager's apron, stroking him until he was erect.

Miles seemed to forget about their previous interaction as he pulled Trager's apron to the side, his panting changing from angered to eager. “See? You want it.” Trager chuffed, an amused edge to his voice. “You know you do.”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm a slut.” Miles grumbled. He was already courting Trager's cock, stroking it a few times, eyeing it up hungrily. He started licking it tenderly, gently, almost reverently. He didn't wait very long to bury the head of Trager's cock in his mouth, his full body tense with erotic heat. He felt Trager's wiry fingers lace through his oily hair, gently scratching the back of his head and pushing him forward.

“Then do your job, slut.” He commanded, his silky voice pricking under Miles' skin. Miles caressed the head of Trager's cock in his lips, just barely sucking it, teasing the absolute minimum. He held on for a moment, keeping both of them in an almost agonizing limbo, before even he could not stand it and he slid Trager's cock back into his mouth.

Miles found a rhythm quickly, small moans already beginning to form in the back of his throat. “Mmh, doc...” He groaned, licking the head of Trager's cock rather enthusiastically.

“You get pretty damn into it, dontcha?” Trager hissed, sinking his nails into Miles' scalp as he spoke. “But, if you could...y'know, get into it a little faster...” The very corners of Miles' lips turned up in amusement, but nonetheless he obeyed and shoved downwards.

Trager rocked Miles' head back and forth, curling his hand around the back of it as he rasped words of encouragement. Miles stifled cries of pleasure, his chest hurting for just a second, a kind of tingling along his stitches. He remained silent, closing his eyes and furrowing his brow as he felt Trager's cock vein throb against his tongue. Something about this living feeling was so disgusting it was delicious.

Absolutely delicious. Trager stroked Miles' hair, offering him sharp-edged words of encouragement. “Oh, I love you, slut.” Trager hissed, grunting slightly. Miles could see his chest heave from this angle, swelling in and out, his thin skin glistening in the unflattering light. Miles sank his nails into Trager's legs and shoved his cock to the back of his throat, pressing it deeper until he could almost feel himself choking already.

“Hmm, ya almost ready, you pretty little whore?” Trager purred, tickling Miles' head with his long fingernails.

“Already?” Miles asked, licking his lips as he pulled away.

“Oh, don't you whine.” Trager reprimanded. “You're one step closer to your turn, after all.” Miles whined and licked the head of Trager's cock, taking it back in. Trager placed a hand on Miles' forehead, pushing him backwards. “Keep it there.” He commanded, leaving Miles slightly confused. He swirled his tongue around the head of Trager's cock, a bit stunned by how forcefully Trager was pushing him back.

As Trager tensed one last time, he shoved Miles' mouth off of him, a split second before he came. Miles didn't think to close his eyes until he felt Trager's seed spatter across his face. He whimpered and jumped back a little at the instant, but then he stayed still. Eventually he opened his eyes, face covered with come, and sneered up at Trager.

“You weren't kiddin', doc.” He spat. Trager leaned down and wiped some away with his index finger, quite forcefully offering it to Miles to lick. Miles obliged with a discontented sneer on his face.

“Oh, don't look so sour.” Trager panted. “You needed to wash your face anyway.” Miles scoffed and wiped his face, which was a mostly unsuccessful endeavor.

“Afterwards. You owe me.” Miles grunted, getting to his feet.

“Really?” Trager hissed. “You dirty little slut.” Miles mumbled inaudibly under his breath and turned away from Trager. “Are you actually upset?” Trager laughed openly, running his fingers along the seams of Miles' heart and down his chest.

“I'll let ya in on a secret.” Miles chuckled, urging Trager's hand further down, where he unbuttoned Miles' jeans. “No.” Miles finished.

Trager slowly unzipped Miles' pants, stroking the spot just above the line of his pants and settling in behind him. He softly kissed Miles' ear, and Miles leaned back on Trager, taking a little bit of sadistic pleasure in making the old man support him. Trager huffed, but stayed there, drawing Miles' cock out off his shorts and stroking him slowly.

After a moment, Miles was quite sure that this was the best thing he'd ever felt. “Fuck, doc.” Miles pronounced. “Why haven't we ever done this before?” Trager nuzzled the side of Miles' head and kissed him softly, pawing at his heart with his free hand.

“You know the answer to that.” Trager chuckled. Miles just whined and pressed his back against Trager's chest, legs twitching as Trager stroked him.

“Now squeeze, just a little, doc.” Miles ordered. Trager knew exactly how hard was just a little too hard, and he could find it in an instant. “Alright, fuck you.” Miles growled, elbowing him playfully. Trager purred and relaxed his grip slightly. “Yeah, that's it.” Miles groaned. “That's it. _Fuckkkk_.”

“Where'd all that stamina go, sweetheart?” Trager murmmured.

“I was holding out longer than you, okay?” Miles panted. “Just let me come, alright.” He moaned sharply as Trager's even strokes turned just a tiny bit rougher, smiling blissfully.

“Just give it up.” Trager prompted, tapping the edge of Miles' heart, which was a sensitive spot in light of his recent surgery. Miles rubbed his body against Trager's again, breathing deeply and raggedly. Trager ran his tongue along Miles' neck, tasting his pulse for one fleeting second and feeling his hips jerk a little beneath his weathered hands.

“Shit, okay...” Miles gasped, bracing his spine against Trager's ribs. “Fuck it, fuck it, I'm fuckin' coming...” Trager nuzzled Miles' messy hair as he used his thumb to toy with Miles' cock. Miles shouted an unintelligible stream of curse words as he came, sinking his nails into Trager's skin.

Trager supported Miles as he slowly went slack, softening and relaxing his body against his partner's. “Yessss.” He hissed. “Fuck yes. We...we gotta do that again some time...” Trager ruffled Miles' hair.

“You should clean yourself up, buddy.” He advised. “Come on, the sink's right over there. All you need to do is wash your hair and your face, not even your stitches.” Miles groaned and pulled his pants back up.

“Give me a sec, jeez.” He sighed over-dramatically. Trager left him to his own stability and managed to crank the blood-soaked sink into running. Miles breathed for a moment, his body still tingling a little, before he stretched and sauntered over, leaning against the side of the sink. Trager shoved his face into the running water, which Miles should've expected, but he nonetheless grappled the older man's hands off of him and grunted angrily.

“You're an _asshole_!” Miles exclaimed, rubbing his eyes as Trager continued to run water through his hair, working out knots with his fingers. Miles sighed as Trager petted his head affectionately, laughing at his anger. Miles crossed his arms irritably and kept leaning over the sink, letting Trager wash his hair and his face, pausing to caress the back of his neck.

He was patient until Trager turned the water off, wiping Miles' face off with the corner of his reeking apron. Miles sighed angrily again. “You still owe me, assbutt.” He growled, his feigned irritating bringing a smirk to Trager's face. “We should cuddle. We never cuddle.”

“Well, I actually had another objective in mind for you.” Trager began, as Miles righted himself, wringing out his hair.

“I'm listening.” Miles pronounced.

“How about you go get me some fresh meat.” Trager suggested. Miles' eyes lit up and he turned his head abruptly towards Trager. “From wherever you please.” Trager continued. Miles smiled, revealing slightly yellowed teeth.

“And then we cuddle.”

“Sure.” Trager murmured. “First a new subject, then we cuddle.”

“Deal.”

 


	9. Chase the Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> {A big risk...}  
> [A big fence]  
> {A mistake.}  
> [A new friend!]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa! A chapter! This fic is pretty much just Outlast!the Genetic Opera at this point

Miles leaned over the handles of the same wheelchair he’d ridden up in, smiling a lopsided, dangerous smile.

“Say, you ain’t like them, are you?” He chuckled, tapping the wheelchair lavishly.

“No, no I’m not!” This stranger hissed, grappling at the edges of what appeared to be a dress. Miles couldn’t have said that he was not amused by this man’s clothing style, or by how whiny and fearful he looked. He was a subordinate, obviously. Miles was too, but he was a second-in-command, and he was actually equal to Trager in a number of arenas. “So help me, please. Get me out of here!” He hissed, looking around warily. “So help me, please. Get me out of here!” He begged, looking around warily. “Please! I’m being held against my will.”

Miles cackled loudly, making the stranger jump and look over his shoulder with sheer terror on his face.

“Well, I can take ya somewhere else, but I can’t guarantee you’re gonna like it any more than this place.” Miles giggled. “Pick and choose, buddy.” The blond-haired stranger just stared at Miles for a moment, assessing whether or not he was actually a variant, before he silently climbed into the wheelchair. Miles bound his wrists and his ankles, as was protocol, with the usual _“Arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times.”_ message.

He was heavy, but honestly smaller than most of the variants Miles hauled around. He didn’t even relax once they’d left, flinching at every sound from the hallway.

What an interesting standoff they’d had. Miles trying to decide if he should pick up some scruffy kid in a dress and this guy deciding whether or not to accompany a shirtless dude with a heart carved into his chest. A normal day at Mount Massive.

“So, what’s your name, kid?” Miles asked, making inappropriately casual small talk.

“Waylon Park…” He responded. Miles nodded slowly. “A-And you?” Waylon asked.

“Nurse Miles Upshur. Former reporter.” Waylon froze for a second, heartbeat racing, and then stayed silent all the way back to Trager’s medical bay. Miles was bored by the lack of back-and-forth between them, and he yawned discontentedly as he wheeled the chair into the patients’ hallway. Waylon’s eyes widened, and he seemed to be cultivating a healthy level of regret as he stared at the patients lining the hallways.

“The Grim Reaper’s back.” One of them coughed. “Oh look, he’s got a…”

“A girl?” Another panted, remaining eye sparkling.

“Naw, you gawkers.” One spat. “Ain’t no way that’s a girl. Look at it.”

“Where’d he get such a pretty dress?” Yet another taunted, chuckling darkly.

“Well, it looks like there’s a new lowest notch on the totem pole.” Miles declared. “Get used to it, sport.” Waylon whimpered and clutched the arms of the wheelchair, glad that he’d sent that email from an anonymous source. Out of all his life decisions, that one seemed the best.

That was him, right there. That was the guy. Miles Upshur. Reporter. And instead of reporting, he had a heart carved into his chest. Instead of telling the world about the atrocities of Mount Massive, he was causing them. Waylon took a moment to process all this as Miles edged him onwards.

“ _Tra-ger!_ ” Miles called in a singsong voice. “I brought you a pre-sent!” Waylon stayed still as Trager brushed out of a door with 'Miles' carved into the front of it.

“Didja, buddy?” Trager purred eagerly, but his face fell as soon as he laid eyes on Waylon.

“Pure and unspoiled.” Miles declared.

“Sweetheart,” Trager began, sighing deeply. “Did you steal this?”

“I found it.” Miles defended. Trager pulled at Waylon's dress, examining him closely.

“No, you stole it.” Trager declared. “From Gluskin.”

“Well, technically, he came to meet me.” Miles scoffed. “So, if anything, I liberated him.”

“Gluskin is dangerous.” Trager growled, righting himself. “You shouldn't've staggered over there in the first place. If he'd caught you, he would've killed you.”

“I have great faith in my parkour skills.” Miles retaliated. Trager glared at him with hostility.

“You're lucky.” Trager hissed. “But if Gluskin comes through howling about it, you're answering for the theft.” Trager huffed, turning around and exposing Waylon to the fact that he didn't wear pants, which Waylon noted with an avoidant twitch of his pupils. “So, thus, he's all yours.”

“Wh...what?” Miles gasped, eyes widening.

“Well, I was thinking that if you're going to inherit this role from me one day,” Trager began. “You might as well get your own test subject.” He added, nodding towards Waylon. “Keep him where you want, do what you will, remember that he's a liability and you're answering for your crimes should Gluskin hear of them.”

“Don't you worry, doc!” Miles laughed, grabbing the wheelchair again. He scooted Waylon along until he found a mostly empty room, where he hauled Waylon out of the chair. “You stay here.” Miles instructed. “I wouldn't want to have to tie you down, now would I?” He chuckled, tying Waylon to a bed anyway. Waylon groaned, but found that he had relative freedom fairly quickly. He could sit up and take a few steps, but not even get close to the door. Miles chuckled at him and shoved the wheelchair into the corner.

“You're not getting out, don't worry.” He snickered. Waylon sighed and pulled at his tied shackles. “Hey, I told ya.” Miles added, hands on his hips. “You're a piece a'work, aren't ya?”

“I could say the same for you.” Waylon retorted. Miles glanced down at himself.

“Fair enough.” Miles commented.

“So...like...” Waylon murmured uncomfortably. “Did you get those from...”

“Trager?” Miles finished. “Yah. He loves me.” He replied with a smirk on his face. Waylon nodded silently, realizing that maybe this was a worse idea than staying there with the man Trager and the other variants had referred to as Gluskin.

“I see...” Waylon breathed, not quite knowing how else to respond. He looked Miles up and down, taking stock of all his stitches and wondering how much time he spent on the cutting board.

“Don't you worry. I'll keep you in good shape.” Miles clicked with a wink. “After all, you're the only one I've got.” Waylon was pretty sure that all his life choices were wrong ones at that point.

“So...what exactly do you do around here?” Waylon stammered.

“Typical nurse things.” Miles replied. “I run Trager's equipment back and forth, trade mangled corpses for drugs and other shit, and catch fresh meat for the cutting block. And I get into insult fights with the patients. It's funny 'cause they can't do anything about it.” Waylon nodded like he understood. “So...how exactly did you let Gluskin get ahold of you?” Miles questioned, picking something sharp up from the corner and turning it over a few times.

“It's a long story...” Waylon chuffed, trying to avoid telling said story at all costs. “I just sort of...wandered down there. It was an accident.”

“Really?” Miles said, surprised. “Because you look mighty good in a dress, if I do say so myself. Gluskin's got himself an eye.” Waylon scowled.

“Very funny.” He sighed. “I can tell we'll get along well.”

“I sure hope so, buddy.” Miles hissed, his impression of Trager almost flawless. “It'll be nice to have someone to talk to besides Trager.” Miles leaned up and rubbed the edge of his heart gently, grunting with frustration. “ _Fuckkk_ , these stitches itch like nobody's goddamn business.” He hissed through tightly-gritted teeth. “But I can't stratch 'em. They're fresh.”

“Fresh?” Waylon whined, peering closer to look at Miles' heart.

“About two days young.” Miles informed him. “And still sore. And itchy.”

“So those other ones...”

“Old.” Miles dismissed. “But not ready to come out.”

“And he did all that?” Waylon murmured hesitantly.

“Of course.” Miles said with a shrug, like it was completely normal. “It's part of the trade-off, comes with the business.” He rubbed at his stitches a little more, and Waylon watched his hand closely.

“And your fingers?”

“First impressions.” Miles chuckled, turning his hand over and moving his remaining fingers.

“He...he cut your fingers off?” Waylon murmured, making a disgusted face.

“Sure did. With scissors.” Miles answered with a nod. Trager clicked the door open, brushing in and giving Miles a curious look.

“Hey, sweetheart?” Trager purred.

“Yes, dear?” Miles drawled, turning towards him with lidded eyes.

“Are you done with introductions? You have a job, remember.” Trager said with sternness that may have been real for once.

“Sure thing.” Miles chirped, striding towards the door. He gave Trager an uncertain look, not sure if he was actually in trouble or not. He attempted to rectify his wrongs by sliding his head under Trager's, softly kissing the leathery flesh where his lips used to be. He nibbled Trager's jawline uncertainly, pleading like an omega wolf. Trager tapped the space between the arcs of Miles' heart twice, pulling his mask into place with the other hand. Miles shrunk down a little, eyes wide but not pleading, just slightly cautious.

Waylon watched their bizarre ritual closely, suddenly very uneasy. He realized quickly, as Miles noticed, that they were lovers, and that seemed to frighten him a little. Miles kissed Trager's jaw, stroking his barren chest as he silently asked for forgiveness. Trager stroked his hair, scratching the back of his neck, and then softly kissed Miles' forehead.

“Come on, nurse.” Trager murmured, scratching Miles' chin delicately. Miles made a happy squeaking sound and lolled his tongue out of his mouth like a dog, panting comically. Trager scratched his ear before easing them apart and nudging the door open.

Miles gave Waylon a look, as though to make sure he was still there, with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. Waylon sighed, waving a short goodbye to Miles as he left, closing the door to leave Waylon even more alone and at risk than he had been before.

 


	10. Cuddles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't even a chapter!!  
> But the next one will be longer, I promise...

“Hey, didn't you promise that we would cuddle?” Miles grunted abruptly, turning towards Trager.

“I believe our agreement was that you would bring me _fresh meat_ , and then we would cuddle.” Trager rasped. “And you brought me a trinket you stole from Gluskin, which I'm not willing to use.” He refuted. “So, until you bring me a patient a I can experiment on, we're not due for cuddling.” Miles scoffed, leaning towards Trager.

“Aw, come on.” Miles murmured. “You were gonna give me my own anyway.”

“Hmm...perhaps.” Trager mumbled, turning his eyes towards Miles. Miles rubbed his head on Trager's shoulder, hoping to garner enough forgiveness to get his request granted. “And I believe that _technically_ you were not being disobedient, am I correct?”

“Yes, doc.” Miles chirped, nuzzling Trager's bony shoulder. “I was following orders 100%.”

“And you'd never do _anything_ to annoy me on purpose, would you, buddy?” Trager snarked.

“Of course not.” Miles chirped, fluttering his eyelashes. “Aren't I perfect?” Trager chuckled and snorted a little as he laughed, which made Miles' heart beat faster. Trager pretended like it didn't happen, but Miles giggled at him nonetheless.

“Aww, what a cutie.” Miles crooned, stroking Trager's hair.

“Shut up.” Trager growled quietly. Miles kissed his cheek and nuzzled his leathery face.

“I meant that.” Miles purred, running his hand along Trager's chest. “I love you.” Trager sighed and petted Miles' hair back, without looking at him.

“Yeah, yeah, you're cute.” Trager huffed.

“Cuddles?” Miles whined, nudging Trager with his head.

“Fine, sweetheart.” Trager crooned. “But I assume you'd prefer to lie down.” Miles nodded and half-jumped onto his mattress.

“Come here, love! Claim my body!” Miles gasped dramatically, laying his hand against his forehead. Trager was not amused. Nevertheless, he collapsed beside Miles with a sigh, pulling Miles' face to his chest.

“C'mere, you.” Trager coughed, ruffling Miles' silky hair. “Little shithead.” Miles nuzzled Trager's neck lovingly, smiling with his eyes closed.

“Yep.” Miles conceded. Trager stroked his hair calmly, restraining his discontentment for a moment.

“You're lucky I like you, buddy.” Trager chuffed. Miles purred and nuzzled the side of his face.

“Yeah, I am. I'm a lucky little buddy.” He murmured softly. He stroked Trager's arm, grabbing ahold of his drip and squeezing it just until he felt the pressure, not too hard.

“You got what you wanted.” Trager chuckled. “We're cuddling.”

“Mmh-hmm.” Miles whimpered. “Y'know, I think we should do something kinky sometime...”

A sigh echoed through Miles' room, not for the first time or the last.

"Give me a break, buddy."

 


	11. Priests and Cannibals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa! It took me less than a month to update! And look at how long this chapter is! It's crazy!  
> I decided to showcase some variant interactions in this chapter. Featuring Silky. I...I don't know either.  
> And don't ask about the boyfriend variants okay

 Waylon had begun to hope that Gluskin would come save him.

He wondered how he’d gotten here. He thought he’d made good choices in life. Clear up until working for Murkoff, but how had he even managed to weasel his way into something that depraved in the first place?

The opening of the door to his new prison was not a welcoming sound. He was pretty sure it was Miles, but even then, he didn’t get his hopes up. Very little good could come of anything Miles did to him.

“Hey, buddy.” Miles chirped, yawning as he pushed his way in. “Ughh, I hate being tired all the time. Anyway, how’s things?”

“A bit dull.” Waylon mumbled awkwardly.

“Ah, I see.” Miles clicked. “You need it to be duller?” Waylon gave him a sideways look.

“Wh-What do you mean?” He asked, a fearful edge to his voice.

“You need help sleeping?” Miles asked slyly. Waylon seemed to be missing whatever knowledge Miles was trying to telepathically direct at him. “You need some special k?” Waylon appeared even more confused and suddenly very out of the loop. “Drugs.” Miles sighed at last. “I’m offering you ketamine.”

“Isn’t that a horse tranquilizer?”

“Hey, it _works_ on humans.” Miles said indignantly. “And it’s rare commodity. I have a limited allotment.” Waylon was about to ask why there would be ketamine in here at all, but upon considering the Murkoff Corporation's medical practices, it made sense.

“I think I’m good…” Waylon answered.

“Ah, I might as well keep it myself anyway...” Miles grumbled. “Since you're the reason Trager won't have sex with me anymore.”

“And that's a bad thing, I'm assuming...” Waylon murmured.

“Yeah...” Miles scoffed. “He's just cranky because I stole you from Gluskin and he doesn't want to get into a fight with him. Nobody wants to get into a fight with Gluskin, really.”

“I don't want to get into a fight with Gluskin.” Waylon added.

“Hah, some job you did of that!” Miles laughed. “You seemed pretty wrapped up in his affairs when I came in. Like you walked right into him or something.” Waylon darted his eyes off to the side. “So, tell me, did our favorite southern band Dennis and the Dennises knock you out and shove you down there, or what?” Miles asked, amused. “Or do you mean to tell me that you just wandered in there of your own volition?” Miles shook his head and laughed again.

“I, uhh...” Waylon mumbled. “Accidentally wandered in there. Running from some guy with dissociative identity disorder. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, y'know?” Waylon answered fearfully.

“I see, I see. This seems to be a chronic problem of yours.” Miles replied. “And that was Dennis! See, I told ya. Fucking Dennis...” He mumbled angrily. “He bugs me. Reminds me too much of my extended family.”

“Being that he behaves like a terrifying hick or that he sacrifices people to a wife-hungry psychopath?”

“Both.” Miles shuddered. “Anyway, you must've been some kind of fool to run straight into Gluskin's little slut hotel. Didn't know your way around, did ya?”

“No...” Waylon squeaked awkwardly.

“I have an offer to make.” Miles announced abruptly. “I want to go out and go meat hunting, bring something back to atone for what I did with you. And if you come with me, I can show you around, give you some tips, maybe put you to work.” He elaborated, leaning over an empty bed as he spoke. “Since you don’t seem too up to date on how things work in Mount Massive…”

“I don’t know if I’ll be much help.” Waylon replied hastily. “I mean, scavenging is not my forte…”

“Well, that’s what I’m saying.” Miles continued. “I’ll show you. I'll bet you've got some use in you yet.”

“I'm...not sure I want to...” Waylon mumbled. “But, I mean, technically I belong to you...” Technically. He didn't want to fight Miles. At all. He was probably too depraved and too violent, just like all the other variants. He just didn't _look_ like them.

“Actually...” Waylon contradicted. “I guess I'll go. It'll give us...a chance to talk.” Miles raised an eyebrow.

“I don't know what you think we're gonna talk about, but I doubt it's actually gonna come up.” He chuckled. “Anyway, you're coming with me. Oh wait, hang on a sec...” Miles darted out the door, shouting, _“Doc!”_ at the top of his lungs.

“Yes, sweetness?” Trager sighed loudly.

“We got any spare parts? I'm goin' out.” Miles asked loudly.

“Sureeee, buddy.” Trager murmured. “There's half an arm here somewhere, and...this. I think it's a gallbladder. Here's something...oh, wait, that's uhhh...small intestine? Ehh.”

“Wait, is that liver or just flesh fiber?” Waylon heard Miles call. “I think it's liver. Oh, it's half a liver, nice. I'll take that. There's a bone over here and it's still got marrow in it.”

“Yeah, take all that if you need to. There's some skin in that urinal. You haven't used that one, have you?”

“I don't think so...” Miles replied uncertainly. “Ah, it's just skin. I need meat.”

Waylon listened in pained horror, his second thoughts now more like four-hundredth thoughts. What did Miles need organs for?

“Okayyyy, what is this?” Miles drawled. A moment of silence followed. “Spleen?” Silence. “Uhh...”

“Probably.” Trager huffed.

“Well it's squishy; they'll eat it.” Miles verbally shrugged. He came trotting back into Waylon's room with a filthy paint bucket in one hand. Fingers were sticking out of the top of it.

“Alright, we're ready now. For real.” Miles declared. He hastily untied Waylon and gestured him out the door.

Waylon followed Miles, finding that the nurse was surprisingly agile and surprisingly quick. It was quiet in the halls outside Trager's den, the blood smearing the walls mostly cold and dry. The variants had left these zones outside major territories, which were known as 'gateways', empty and eerie.

Waylon was pretty spry himself, but he had a healing leg wound. He'd learned to run with it pretty well, and he got by. It didn't hurt too much anymore, partially thanks to a little help from Gluskin. Miles had his fair share of stitches, but they didn't seem to bug him at all. He was sprightly nonetheless.

“So...Miles...” Waylon began quietly. “You've been through an awful lot of surgery...”

“You're just now noticing this?” Miles laughed.

“But...they were all from Trager, correct?”

“Yep.”

“So, you weren't here... _before_ , were you?” Waylon asked cautiously. Miles' shoulders tensed instantly.

“Before...?”

“Before the...the Walrider.” Waylon answered. Miles turned around and glared at him with a passion. “You weren't...a patient, were you?” Miles cocked his head. Waylon had never seen him look so intensely angry.

“You have a lot to learn about talking to people who are more dangerous than you.” Miles growled stiffly. “Honestly, you’re gonna get yourself killed.” Miles continued. He drew a long sigh. “Nah, man. I wasn’t. Not that I remember.” Waylon decided that it may be better to shut up now. “Where was I going again? Yeah, the drop.”

“Drop?”

“No floors for three floors. It’s a non-padded cellblock.” Miles recited evenly. “Iron bars. A lot of the variants hang out there. They lock themselves in cells, sometimes in feeble attempts to keep people like me away.”

Waylon followed Miles step for step, staying as close as he dared, not sure if he feared Miles or strange variants more. Miles he seemed to at least be able to reason with, which was quite important. That meant Miles was the best option for the moment.

Waylon could see why it was called The Drop. A fall from the highest rim of these cells would likely be deadly. It certainly was…populous. Like so many of the variants hadn’t ever found their way out of their cells and were content with just lying in there for an eternity.

“Oh, hey Silky!” Miles called, eagerly approaching a variant whose eyes and mouth appeared to be bound with narrow, filthy strips of cloth. “First rule of variants...” Miles began, addressing Waylon. “If you've got the right resources and the right knowledge, they can be incredibly beneficial.”

“Hello, friend.” The muffled variant rasped. “Silky, silky friend.”

“Have you ever heard of a little thing called mutualism?” Miles asked with a soft chuckle.

“Yeah, of course...” Waylon answered. “It's a form of symbiosis where both partners benefit from the relationship.” The Silky Variant slid up behind Miles. Directly behind him. Waylon noticed that he wasn't wearing pants, but he decided not to comment.

“Do you have an itch?” The Silky Variant stuttered. “You look like you have an itch.” He nudged Miles' head with his chin and made a curious snuffling sound.

“Mount Massive is an ecosystem.” Miles declared. “And there are examples of symbiosis to be found everywhere. We call this one Silky, and he's gonna help me show you mutualism at its finest.” Silky grunted and nuzzled Miles' head again. Miles reached backwards, leaning his head over as he began to loosen the strips of cloth wound tightly across Silky's jaw.

Silky gnashed his teeth as his mouth was freed, making a pleased growling sound. Waylon wasn't sure what the point of this was going to be, and he was rapidly losing a desire to know. Miles brushed his hair against Silky's lips again, and Waylon watched in baffled horror as Silky made a lunge for his neck.

It took Waylon a moment to realize that Silky was not, in fact, trying to kill him. Rather, his manner seemed almost affectionate. He was biting, yes, but more of gentle, patterned, nips than vicious ravaging. He paused for a moment to lick Miles' neck with a strangely long tongue before resuming his unusual gnawing pattern. Miles just stood there in silent contentment while Silky's gnashing teeth roamed towards the back of his head.

“You see, Waylon, societal conventions have made humans forget the pleasures of communal grooming.” Miles chuckled, reaching behind his head to scratch the back of Silky's head. “A gesture of affection in almost every single species.”

“Grooming?” Waylon mumbled, narrowing his eyes as Silky chewed into Miles' hair.

“Say what you will, this feels _fuckin' beautiful_.” Miles defended. Silky licked the side of his face, rubbing off newer speckles of dried blood. “Contrary to popular belief, variants can, in fact, be harmless, friendly, and even helpful.”

“I've never known them to - oh god, I used to have a dog who did that...” Waylon groaned, face plastered in disgust as he watched Silky grate his teeth against the back of Miles' head. Miles kept nonchalantly scratching Silky's face.

“Well, you don't know 'em too well, then.” Miles laughed. “You just gotta know which ones are okay.” Silky chewed idly on Miles' ear before nuzzling the back of his neck. “You wanna make friends with him?”

“Silky. You taste so silky.” Silky purred around a few scrapes of his teeth.

“Alright, alright.” Miles announced, tapping Silky's head. Silky licked his lips and removed his mouth from Miles. “You're good, Silks.” He murmured. “You sure you don't want a turn?” Miles asked, turning back to Waylon.

“Yeah, I think I'm good...” Waylon replied nervously.

“Suit yourself.” Miles grunted. He reached into the paint bucket and pulled out an unidentified, dark organ. After a moment, he tore it, peeling off ragged chunks and offering them to Silky, who snapped them up like a dog receiving treats. Waylon chose to avert his eyes.

“Do you wanna feed him?” Miles offered. “He won't bite.”

“S-soft and silky...” Silky growled, muffled by a mouthful of wet organ meat. Miles handed a slimy strip of flesh to Waylon before he could object, and Silky seemed to notice him at last.

Silky took a few menacing steps forward. “Are you my friend?” He asked Waylon, in a static voice.

“Uhh...yes.” Waylon whimpered.

“Friend...j-just come here. I need to tell you a secret.” Silky choked, now standing above Waylon. “Oh, you look so silky...” He murmured, jerking his head down towards Waylon's neck. Waylon froze in fear as Silky nibbled at his neck, taking Waylon's silence as acceptance. “Ah, you're furry.” Silky grunted, nuzzling Waylon's facial hair. “Such silky fur.”

“Miles...” Waylon squeaked.

“Ah, don't be such a baby.” Miles laughed. Silky chewed on Waylon's scruffy half-beard with surprising softness. Waylon decided to let him, for innate fear of anyone who ate organs.

Silky began licking Waylon's hair like a cat, finding a lot more substance in Waylon's hair, which had not been washed as recently as Miles' had. He scratched Waylon's scalp with the points of his teeth, which was oddly...pleasant.

Waylon silently pretended like his Silky-bath didn't feel good at all. Miles clearly wasn't believing it, but he crossed his arms across his heart and let Waylon enjoy himself anyway. Eventually Silky got distracted by the meat in Waylon's hand and gently stole it, leaving Waylon empty-handed. Miles gave Waylon the rest of the nondescript organ to fulfill this absence, which Silky pretty much scarfed down whole, licking blood and unknown seeping fluids off of Waylon's fingers.

Silky then nudged his hands rather than his head, flicking his tongue at his displaced bindings. Miles promptly took notice and returned them to their proper position and tightness. “Friend.” Silky choked. “Friends. See me when you are itchy. I have s-secrets to tell you always.” That was the most coherent thing Waylon had heard him say yet. Miles scratched Silky's forehead briefly before he broke away, Waylon following as quickly as possible.

“So…who is it who may be beneficial to interact with?” Waylon wondered out loud.

“A lot of ‘em you can talk to.” Miles shrugged. “I, my friend, have a well-established status of fearful reverence, which is probably the highest honor you can get here. Fearful reverence, or reverent fear, is the most powerful aura you can be granted. I’m fast, I’m dangerous, and I speak in sentences.” Miles gestured to himself with raised eyebrows. “I come bearing the gift of free meat, and in return I ask only for things they have little use for, like medical supplies and batteries. Thus, I am godlike.”

Waylon nodded. That made a decent amount of sense, actually.

“But if you’re a lesser beast, avoid everyone or stick with a more powerful ally.” Miles advised, tapping his temple with the index finger he still had. “Who knows who to talk to. Now, some of the inmates are actually pretty laid-back. Others screw headless corpses in the air vents.” Miles looked around before clambering up on some stacked boxes and leaping to the next level. Waylon followed stiffly.

“There’s the twins, also known to some as the naked twins.” Miles began as he led Waylon along. “They look like inbred cavemen, but they’re surprisingly well-spoken and they have deceptively attractive voices. They’re pretty chill, to be honest. They’ve only tried to kill me twice that I can remember. I’m also 97% sure that they’re…err, _brotherlovers_ , but I have not completely confirmed that theory. And I don’t know if I want to.”

“I think I remember them.” Waylon commented, following Miles along a rather narrow ledge.

“You’d know them if you’ve seen them.” Miles said, with a slight shudder. “They’re fairly reasonable men, anyway. Now that Trager has claimed both my tongue and my liver. Trager is pretty rational as far as most things go, but then again that kinda depends on who you ask. Silky is just a little sweetheart, really.” Miles rambled. “Then there’s the religious ones, they mostly reside in a certain sector of the staff bedrooms. They stay out of the way, and as long as you don’t say anything about their freaky religion, they’re cool. I don’t know what happened to Father Martin and if I ever see that bastard again, I’ll kill him.”

“Okay, so…Who should I avoid at all costs?” Waylon prompted, peering through cell bars and wondering if the variant within was dead or asleep.

“Walker.” Miles growled. “He’s retreated a little since the... _attacks_ stopped, and he's not one to go after the variants themselves, but he’s still kind of a prick. I’ve seen him rip people’s bodies off their heads, so you definitely don’t want to make the big fucker angry. He’s got an agenda, and he’ll destroy anything that gets in the way of that agenda.” Miles froze and peered through a cell door, searching for someone who wasn’t paying attention. “Also probably Frank Manera. I’ve made deliveries to him before, but he’s not to be trusted entirely. His hunger is never satiated.”

“I’ve met Manera…and I can agree.” Waylon inserted.

“And last but not least, Gluskin.” Miles continued. “Out of everyone you should avoid, Gluskin gets top billing. And the…” Miles stopped again, casting an uncertain glance around. “Mara.”

“Mara?” Waylon repeated. “You mean the Wal-“

“ _Tch_!” Miles hissed, grabbing Waylon by his dress. “You don’t saythat name in _mixed_ _company_.” He narrowed his eyes and stared around, down off the ledge, to make sure nobody’s interest had been piqued quite yet. “Let the thing be. If we get riled up about it, it’ll come out again, sure as death.”

“Where did it go?” Waylon asked in a hushed voice. Miles shook his head.

“None can say.” He replied. “Underground. Into the mountains. Up to the heavens. Wherever it went, it’s not _gone_. It comes back through sometimes; doesn’t always kill, but keeps an eye on things. Here’s a friendly tip, _Waylon_ :” Miles growled. “Everyone is scared of the W-the Mara, and its name is feared and revered more than any other. It’s the most powerful word you can throw around.” Miles’ face was now an inch away from Waylon’s, and his breath reeked of vomit and gore.

“ _Death_ pales in comparison.” Miles hissed haltingly. “ _Torture_ is pleasant. _Massacres_ are mundane. Nobody in this godforsaken place can even come close to the status of the Mara. It is as a _god_ to them and you will _treat it as such_.” He snarled. Waylon shrunk away a little.

“Got it.” Waylon choked.

“Good.” Miles sighed, turning to lead onwards. “2nd rule of variants: Don’t mention the Mara in mixed company.” Miles ruffled his own hair, still slightly slick from having been groomed earlier. “It would actually probably be better to not mention it at all. Regardless, we’ve got work to do.” Miles trotted on, along the narrow pathways that peered down into the steep, lingering void below. Waylon was trying to be as unafraid of heights as possible. “We're hunting for a living thing that Trager can work with.” Miles said rather nonchalantly. “And there may be some around here.”

Nearby, a fairly untouched-looking variant was sitting in front of a cell door, leaning his smooth head against the bars with a look of distant exasperation on his rigid face. Miles gestured for Waylon to stop as they approached him.

“Rule the third of variants: You can learn a lot from observing them.” Miles whispered, nodding towards the scene unfolding before them.

“Jon, come out of there.” The exasperated-looking variant said flatly, without moving his head. What followed was only silence, making Miles' initial thought that he was actually addressing a dead guy. “Please. I don't want to do this anymore.” He grunted icily. A brief shot of silence ensued, in which Waylon wondered what purpose listening to this could possibly serve.

“Promise you'll listen to me next time.” Someone who was most likely the alleged Jon demanded.

“Yes, of course.” The other variant said softly, closing his eyes. Miles took a few brave steps forward, seeming incredibly focused on whatever was unfolding before him. “I love you. And I'm very sorry.”

“David...” A rough voice gasped, following by a quiet shuffling. “That's the sweetest you've ever been to me.” Another variant came into view on the other side of the door, on his hands and knees, probably from hiding under a bed. This one almost skeletal in appearance, with leathery skin. The variant who was apparently David lifted his head and gazed through the bars with a silent smile.

“Will you come out now?” David asked. Jon paused for a moment, gazing longingly at him, before he picked up a key, and, rising to his knees, unlocked the door. David pushed it open and embraced Jon lovingly.

“Did you see that?” Miles said wondrously. “We just witnessed the re-unification of _love_.” He sighed and smiled. “Nature is a beautiful thing.” He marveled. Waylon was silent, brow furrowed. Beautiful may not have been the word he used.

Miles trotted forwards. David shrunk out of the way, nodding as a gesture of subordinance, and said, “ _Nurse_.” curtly as though acknowledging the passing of a police officer. Miles nodded without looking at him.

“Treat yourself, lovebirds.” Miles declared, tossing half of an arm out of the paint bucket and towards them.

“Man, there's nobody worthwhile out today, is there?” Miles sighed as they strafed along delicately, avoiding the spots where there were no bars along the platform. “Wait...” He hissed, seeing another variant crouched in front of an iron door, pawing at the bars and calling _“Here, kitty kitty...”_ To some unseen being. Miles smiled and lunged forward, seizing his throat in an instant, as he seemed to not have noticed Miles' presence, and struck him against the nearby railing just hard enough to knock him into spiraling consciousness.

“Nevermind.” Miles laughed. “Now help me carry him back.”

“Wh-what?” Waylon stammered. Miles threw the variant's heavy, mostly limp body over his shoulder, gesturing Waylon behind him.

“Just support the lower half. That chair is hard to haul around.” Miles grunted. Waylon reluctantly obliged, glad to at least be on the slightly less dangerous edge of things.

“So, this is what you do for a living?” Waylon asked, having to add another entire layer of caution now that he was carrying something as heavy as a body of another person.

“Yep. Run errands for Doc Trager.” Miles yawned. “It's surprisingly beneficial.” Waylon shrugged his shoulders and continued silently following Miles, at least until Miles rolled the incapacitated body back down onto the main ground, still hauling the paint bucket around with his unoccupied arm. Waylon trailed him nervously all the way back to Trager's den, listening to the scattered sounds of the asylum, silently wondering whether or not it was even possible to run away at this point.

He was trapped, he thought, as he paid not attention to his and Miles' return to Trager.

“ _Herr Doktor?_ ” Miles beckoned. “Look, I brought you a gift. And this one I _didn't_ steal.”

“You're too kind, buddy.” Trager laughed, pulling Miles in and kissing him softly. “Hand him to me. I've got a spot for him. You take your stolen goods back to the display case.” Waylon crossed his arms, avoiding Trager's gaze, and sighed as Miles dragged him by the wrist back to his original spot.


	12. A Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miles and Waylon talk about sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You call this a chapter?? Yes okay things do happen and I haven't updated in way too long. The next chapter involves vomit tho so there's that

“Well, you lead an interesting life, at least...” Waylon mumbled, mostly to himself. Miles stared at a smear of blood on the wall.

“Yep.” Miles agreed. “Interesting at least. Pretty fun, in my opinion. Probably a bit...freer than life with Gluskin, I'd imagine. So, did you guys, like...have sex?”

“N-No...” Waylon sighed, not quite sure why Miles would ask such a question of him.

“Pfft, I would've left too.” Miles laughed.

“Ah, so...you and the doctor...” Waylon squeaked meagerly. “ _Do_ have sex?”

“Of course, my friend.” Miles chuckled. “And it ain't half bad.” He purred, shrugging his shoulders contentedly. “If I do say so myself.” Waylon just sat there, with absolutely no idea how to respond to such a statement.

“If that's what you're into...” Waylon managed to mumble, keeping his eyes away from Miles'.

“Ay, don't knock it until you've tried it.” Miles retorted. “When you're trapped in here, the least you can do is get laid once in a while. And there's not a whole lot of, uhh, options about, to be honest.”

“Well, I mean, I haven't _tried_ to get down anyone's pants.” Waylon defended. “I don't really swing that way...” Miles cackled loudly, leaning against the wall as an amused smile fixed itself on his face.

“Ah, you're trapped here, y'know. 'Swinging' isn't really a thing. There are no swings anymore. The swingset is broken.” Miles attempted to explain. “Hmm, you've never, though? Never considered it?”

“N-Not really...” Waylon stammered. “I mean, not...seriously...”

“Heh, we all have at some point, right?” Miles teased. “Even just a passing thought...” He purred, stretching his arms over his head. “I gave a guy a handjob once.” He yawned, as though it was no matter to him. “I was reaaaally drunk.” He chuckled. “But I hadn't really had like, serious sex with a guy until Trager. Strange how things go, isn't it?”

“Yeah...” Waylon murmured. “Strange indeed.”

“And now there's no way he'll have sex with me...maybe if I beg really nicely...” Miles thought out loud. “Either that or he'll get even more pissed of. Worth a shot?” He suggested, cocking his head at Waylon. “I think so.”

“I wouldn't know.” Waylon replied honestly.

“Well, on the subject of Gluskin, I've never met him, but...” Miles winked sideways at Waylon. “He might be worth it.”

“He wanted to cut my dick off.” Waylon retorted. Miles squinted for a minute.

“Eh.” He shrugged at last. “If he doesn't _still_ want to cut your dick off...” Waylon stared at him with concern and mild discomfort.

“Well...when I brought up this place, you said that you were never a patient...as far as you knew. What's that supposed to mean?” Waylon pried cautiously.

“It means as far as I know.” Miles stated matter-of-factly. “I don't remember having ever been a patient, but I'm not sure whether my memories are correct or not at this point. I might be insane.”

“You don't look like you were a patient.” Waylon noted. “I'd assume your memories are correct, then.”

“Yeah, but what I was before isn't really relevant.” Miles warned, eyes narrowing acutely. “I'm not getting out now.”

“But...what if you could? What if...someone came to rescue us?” Waylon squeaked regardless. Miles breathed heavily through his nose before seizing Waylon by the throat and fixing him with a cold, psychotic stare. He shook his head a few times, but said nothing before he tossed Waylon down and stomped off, declaring, “I need more drugs for this.”

 


	13. Too Much Poison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic isn't dead OMG!! It lives on!! Annnd yes, there will be more sexing, just hold ur horses and I promise the next chapter will be up quicker than this one. It's a sex scene with some hopefully tasty little surprises ;3

A quiet, squeaking groan rippled through a small room, its source bent over itself in the corner, upper body crumpled over lower body and shifted forward. It trembled and whined again, entire figure shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. “Oh god...” He sobbed, choking on the last word and turning it into a retch. He gagged a few times, stomach contracting and eyes dilating, but nothing happened. He uttered a ragged sigh and gripped his stomach, hoping maybe that even pressure as slight as that would be enough to trigger his internal organs into finally rejecting their toxic contents.

He didn't hear the door behind him open, or the soft, scattered footsteps of the figure that slid up behind his crudely-strewn body. “You've gone and done it, haven't you, buddy?” A voice that couldn't have belonged to anyone except Trager asked in pure rhetoric. Miles responded with nothing but a drawn-out, pained groan and a few short-lived retches. “I thought I warned you well enough. You know, I'm beginning to think that you've been ignoring me on purpose.”

“Fuck youuuu.” Miles choked, his spine shivering and weak, sweating hands grasping desperately at nothing.

“I told you that you'd regret it.” Trager growled, grabbing a fistful of Miles' hair and yanking his head up. Miles winced with an audible sound when the light of the ceiling hit his eyes, and he feebly attempted to duck away. “You're gonna need some help there, aren't you?” Trager murmured, knowing very well that Miles wasn't going to respond. “Eh, you'll get what you deserve.” He snarled, pushing Miles mouth open with two of his fingers and shoving them back into his throat.

Miles' dry heaving was in a moment augmented by a strange sort of muffled belch, and then his eyes rolled back as his shoulders tensed and he released a relatively minute amount of vomit. After a second he threw up again, fully-fledged this time, and then again.

“That's it, there.” Trager rasped, rubbing Miles' upper back in an almost soothing manner. “Cough it up, buddy.” Miles had no trouble doing as he was bid, albeit with a little help from Trager to prompt him. Miles vomited and retched feebly for a few more moments, staring down at the rejected contents of his stomach and shaking his head as though refusing some unknown prompt. Then, after a few moments of dizzy agony, he collapsed into a twitching ball, face down in his own vomit, and passed out.

“Some nurse.” Trager scoffed, lifting Miles off the floor and heaving him over his shoulder. “I'm gonna need a nurse for my nurse now, thanks to you.” He mumbled to himself as he laid Miles down again in a more comfortable spot. He briefly wiped Miles' face with the corner of his apron, sighing one last time as he stood up, hoping to seek willing help from one individual and one individual only.

When Miles next came to, strangely soft hands gently raised his head and commanded him to drink. He found some sort of glass (Maybe a bowl, who really knew) pressed against his lips, and he was essentially forced to obey. It was just water, but his mouth tasted like bitter bile, which made that hard to determine. “What the fuck...” Miles grumbled, blinking slowly and squinting against the blinding light.

“Impeccable bedside manner on this one.” Trager crooned. “You made a good choice there, buddy.”

“Hmm?” Miles whispered, trying to open his eyes. “Who are you...” He asked, groping at whatever was in front of him and finding nothing but indistinguishable cloth and warm skin.

“Waylon.” His apparent caretaker answered softly.

“What are you...”

“Filling in for you.” Waylon retorted. “I'm assistant nurse until you're no longer in a drug coma.” Miles managed to open his eyes a little, determining that the being in front of him was at least close enough to Waylon to pass whatever imagined test Miles was enacting.

“Really, I'm just glad you're alive, buddy.” Trager interjected. “I'd kiss you, but your mouth probably still tastes like bile.” Miles blinked a few times and managed to keep his eyes slightly open.

“So piss in my mouth...wash it out...” He choked, shuddering as he breathed.

“Don't tempt me.” Trager spat, grinding his teeth.

“Ah, you're a kinky old bastard, aren't ya?” Miles whispered, laying himself back down. He blacked out again shortly, after a few moments of Waylon shoving water down his throat. He woke up sporadically and groaned each time, putting his hands in front of his eyes and saying things like _“Why won't the lights shut up?”_ and _“I can hear colors.”_ Waylon just nodded and fed more water into Miles' throat, trying to keep him hydrated. He was later advised to bring a vomit bucket, which was utilized several times.

After a while Miles managed to stay listlessly awake, eyes closed a lot of the time, blinking up at Waylon and Doctor Trager with a look of unbridled exhaustion on his face.

“You learned your lesson yet, buddy?” Trager sneered, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. “Figured you'd teach yourself in time.”

“Yeah, sure.” Miles groaned, still sweating a little. “Am I done vomiting yet?”

“Probably.” Trager replied with a slight shrug. “It's not gonna kill you anymore, just stick around in your system and make you feel like you're going to die.”

“You know how little food there is around here? It frustrates me that I lost all the contents of my stomach.” Miles grumbled, opening his eyes but still squinting.

“Well, you weren't vomiting blood, so...” Waylon offered in a meager attempt at comfort. “It could've been worse.”

“Thanks, jackass.” Miles whined.

“He means that in a nice way.” Trager's raspy voice crackled into the conversation.

“Waylon...stay here, talk to me.” Miles demanded suddenly. “Trager's a dick and I need something to focus on besides how likely I am to vomit all over myself.”

“O...kay...” Waylon replied.

“Well, if you feel that way, I might just go back to the work I'm _still capable of doing_.” Trager jeered, still with love in his voice, as he strode off stiffly.

“It's kinda cold tonight, isn't it?” Miles purred, his eyes taking an agonizingly slow trip across the room. “What a pity, we're missing the cuddle puddles.” Waylon had to stare awkwardly at Miles for quite some time before Miles thought to offer an explanation at all. “You see, when it gets cold out, instead of doing something smart like putting on pants, some groups of the variants will sleep in piles, y'know, like a bunch of ferrets.” He began. “It's surprisingly comfortable to get involved, if I'm being honest here.” He admitted with what may have been an attempt at a shrug. “Especially if you manage to locate Chris Walker while he's asleep; he'll have a whole flock of the braver ones piled on him.” Miles laughed at the thought. “Then he sorta shakes them all off angrily when he gets up, but they'll probably do it again anyway.” Miles yawned and shivered, his head still pounding and aching.

“That sounds...dangerous.” Waylon commented.

“Everything's dangerous around here.” Miles murmured. “You just gotta decide what's worth it.”

“I suppose.” Waylon answered thoughtfully, staring above Miles at the wall.

“Do you want to go back to him?” Miles intruded after a moment of silence.

“What?”

“Eddie. Do you want to go back to him?” Miles repeated, turning his head towards Waylon with no shortage of effort.

“I...I don't know.” Waylon admitted. “I mean, I don't really want to be here, but I'm...still kind of afraid of Eddie. I-I guess...” Miles nodded as though he knew precisely what Waylon had meant to say.

“You're just scared.” Miles pronounced. “Of everything. You want someone to protect you, and you're second-guessing yourself because you 're most familiar with Eddie and you trust him more than us. You like him better.” Waylon brushed his skirt down nervously and let his eyes roam Miles' body, checking for any signs of his condition improving.

“Maybe.” Waylon whimpered.

“If you want to go back, I'll let you. Trager doesn't even want you here, anyway.” Miles offered, lifting a hand to paw tenderly at his heart.

“Hmph, if I leave, who's going to stop you from overdosing again?” Waylon joked, which was one of the firs times Waylon had ever seen him be playful.

“Hey, I have...” Miles began indignantly, trailing off and averting his eyes awkwardly. “Okay, I have very little impulse control.” He rolled his head back so that he was staring at the ceiling and yawned, gagging at the end and making a disgusted face. “I really wish I could stop vomiting.” He sighed.

“Well, you could've prevented this.” Waylon declared.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Miles grumbled. He rubbed the side of his face and blinked a few times, trying to clear his vision. “I really am a terrible nurse, aren't I?”

“Depends.” Waylon chuckled. “By Trager's standards, I think you're probably doing pretty good.”

“Tch, I doubt he has a very high opinion of me at this point.” Miles scoffed. “All I've done lately is piss him off. Do you think I could convince him to fuck me out of pity if I make it out of this alive?” Waylon furrowed his brow and sighed deeply.

“It'd take a miracle.”

 


	14. A Warning to the People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the chapter I originally intended to post. It's pretty much filler, but hey it's content which is better than no content (?)  
> Also, I went through technological hell to get this chapter up, I hope you appreciate it  
> What happened was that I decided to lie down and wrap myself up in some blankets, and since I was writing in my head anyway, to just sit there and puff out a semi-filler chapter for this fic. But unfortunately, because my phone is incredibly hyper-sensitive, I accidentally hit "Post Without Preview". I did not have a "Revert to Draft" button, but I didn't want this unfinished chapter just laying about, so I decided I would just copy it, delete the chapter, and re-paste what I had. Unfortunately, in an attempt to re-post the chapter, AO3 insisted that I used Ctrl + V to paste. I did not have access to that command on my little pop-up mobile keyboard.  
> So what ended up doing was going to Tumblr mobile and pasting the chapter data into a draft post so that I wouldn't lose it, and then I had to get up and get back on my PC to transfer the text from the draft post back into AO3's chapter interface. And then saving it as a draft so I didn't accidentally click "Post Without Preview" again.

"Hey, didn’t you say something about an injury on your leg?“

"Yeah, but it’s been there for a while…” Waylon said nonchalantly. It wasn’t that he didn’t want his wound fixed or even just examined, it was that he didn’t trust Trager’s ‘nurse’ to do either of those things. Nevertheless, he let Miles lift his leg by the calf and carefully scrutinize the half-healed gash thereon.

“Damn, how’d you get that?” Miles asked. “It looks like it was pretty deep. Knife cut? It’s a bit ragged for that though…”

“I tried to hit a ladder, running from Gluskin.” Waylon began explaining. “Ladder bent and broke, and I hit the elevator, which was beneath me. Got a good-sized piece of wood lodged in my leg.”

“That’s a bad one, there. You pulled the wood out, right?” Miles continued, gently palpating certain areas around Waylon’s injury.

“Of course.”

“Well, wood bits usually work their way out anyway.” Miles muttered, mostly to himself. “It might be infected. It should have been cleaned immediately, but I know that probably wasn’t a possibility at the time. Though, relatively speaking, it’s looking pretty good. It could stand to be, uhh, drained.”

“Drained?” Waylon winced.

“Yeah. There’s a lot of fluid in there.”

“You know how to do that?”

“Sure.” Miles chirped. “I could probably dig around in there a little. What it really needs is to be disinfected, but I’m not sure I’ve got the stuff.”

“I didn’t expect you to.” Waylon admitted, a bit snide in his manner. “Is there even anything you do have?”

Miles squinted at the ceiling for a moment, before casually answering, “Painkillers? And severed kidneys. And a lot of unsanitary cutting tools.”

“Trager seems like a top-notch doctor.” Waylon huffed indignantly.

“Yeah, and Eddie seems like a top-notch husband.” Miles taunted, sticking his tongue out at Waylon and laughing childishly.

“There’s a reason I didn’t want to stay with him.” Waylon said in agreement.

“Aww, you don’t mean that.” Miles whined in mock dismay.

“Hmm, actually, I do.” Waylon contested, picking up on Miles’ teasing. “Not that I particularly want to be here, but I’m probably better off than I would be with Gluskin.”

“Just 'cause Trager’s scared of Gluskin.” Miles retorted. He stuck his tongue out again.

“Seriously, with the tongue?” Waylon scoffed.

“Heh, Trager hates it when I do that.” Miles giggled mischievously. “That’s why I do it all the time.”

“Why does he hate it so much?”

“'Cause he still kinda wants to cut my tongue out. Just to watch me squirm and writhe and bleed all over my own face. But he couldn’t deal with me if I was silent. He doesn’t act like it, but he loves my snarky commentary. Love bites, y'know.” Miles leaned his back against the side of Waylon’s bed. “I’m gonna loosen your ties real quick.” He declared, before setting Waylon’s wrists free. “I’m allowed to do that, after all.”

“You’re too kind.” Waylon sighed. He pawed at his leg wound a little, feeling more pain now that he was thinking about it. “You’re right… My leg needs to be disinfected.” He mumbled worriedly.

“Hey, I could make a go of it.” Miles offered.

“A tempting offer.” Waylon said insincerely. “But what it really needs is professional medical attention.” Miles sighed in irritation.

“You’re not still on about that, are you?” He snarled.

“Miles…don’t you understand?” Urged Waylon. “This…All this, it isn’t sustainable!”

“Nothing is sustainable.” Miles spat. “It doesn’t matter. We’re all madmen. This is the wild, Waylon, and you’re crying for the loggers to come cut down the forest.” Waylon shook his head.

“No…Miles, this isn’t the wilderness! It’s an overrun mental asylum! You’re not a wolf!” Waylon pleaded. Miles stood up, staring Waylon down with the same kind of cold fury he’d seen in Eddie’s eyes.

“And what the fuck do you think is gonna happen if you manage to call your little police force?” He spat disdainfully. “I’ll tell you what’s gonna happen: you’ve seen everyone out there? Walker, Silky, Trager, Eddie, and every last one of the variants - the good, the bad, the liar, the honest…the leader, the pariah, the victor, the messiah - you know what would happen to them?” Miles paused for a moment, but Waylon was downright frightened by the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice.

“They’d get put down like rabid dogs. Slaughtered. Shot. Mercilessly, because they always say that there’s no other way.” Miles growled, shaking his head at Waylon. “A feral dog and a rabid dog are the same in the eyes of someone who can get away with murder.”

“Is that what this is about?” Waylon managed to utter.

“And you don’t care.” Miles shouted. “Everyone’s Old Yeller. Everyone’s an allowable sacrifice. If you think like that, you’re no better than every sick Murkoff employee who used to work here.”

He spat angrily onto the floor and stomped out without even tying Waylon’s wrists back down.

He ran his fingers through his hair anxiously, sighing angrily to himself. He was deeply, almost profoundly frustrated. And he didn’t know where Trager was. Looking was too much work.

“Herr Dok-tooor!” Miles called in a sing-song voice. Trager would come running soon enough.

“What is it, sweetheart?” Trager responded from somewhere far down the hallway. Miles failed to respond verbally, and instead just bounded off in Trager's direction.

"Trager, I'm frustrated. I need you to hold me." Miles requested.

"I'm in the middle of something, buddy." Trager clicked decisively. 

"So?" Miles whined, shouldering his way into the ex-bathroom Trager was in. Trager was balancing several feet of intestine between his hands, which had the appearance of erupting like tentacles from the gaping stomach of a half-dead variant. "Nice." Miles commented casually. He stepped up to Trager's back and laid his chin on Trager's shoulder, immediately comforted by his familiar warmth and human scent. He leaned his head against Trager's neck and drew in a long breath.

"What's wrong there, little buddy?" Trager asked in an oddly endearing manner.

"That kid, he...he doesn't get it." Miles mumbled into Trager's skin. 

"Hey, you brought him here." Replied Trager, unhelpfully. "Hmm, I don't think that's supposed to be there...How interesting. Did I do that?" He heart-beat to himself. He pulled small intestine out of the chest cavity like a child yanking film from a cassette tape. "Sometimes I forget how much of this stuff is actually in there, y'know." He marveled, again to himself.

"Nothing cheers me up like some good old-fashioned disembowelment." Miles chuckled.

"Oh, whoops. Hold this." Trager announced, handing Miles an organ that was definitely not an intestine. "That wasn't supposed to come out. But what can you do."

"What even is this?" Miles wondered, distracting himself by turning it over in his hands.

"I have no idea." Trager murmured. "Some sort of filtration organ. Not important."

"And neither are those intestines." Miles purred humorously. Trager pushed up his surgical mask and held the presumed midpoint of the extensive length of intestine in his teeth. 

"Where are my scissors?" He asked around a mouthful of intestine. 

"In my ass." Miles replied sarcastically. 

"Well, get them out." Trager ordered, without skipping a beat. "You'll give yourself tetanus."

"Alright, doc..." Miles sighed in false resignation. He turned around, wondering where he'd last seen Trager's favorite pair of scissors anyway. 

The first place to look was generally right beside him. That was Trager's blind spot. This time, however, they weren't there. Just an ex-doctor's-bag whose contents were probably only half things he needed and the other half assorted junk and broken needles.

"They're right over here, you ass." Miles scoffed, pulling the scissors out of a nearby urinal.

"Oh, language, my boy." Trager mumbled. Miles tapped his side with the edge of his long, thin scissors. "Well, there they are. Now, could you do me a favor, buddy?"

"Ready and able." Miles fluttered. 

"Ah, there's my little candy striper." Trager praised. "Now, what I need you to do is cut this intestine here, about at the ends that are coming out, ya see? Leave about an inch from the opening."

Miles did as he was bade, snipping off the length of intestine Trager was holding as cleanly as possible. 

"Nice and even, just the way I like it." Trager commented. Miles scoffed in amusement. Trager loosely wrapped up the length of intestine and tossed it aside. "Now, I've got some sewing to do. All I need is for you to crouch down by my bag there and hand me some things."

"Some things." Miles repeated in a sardonic manner. 

"Where'd you put that other organ?" Trager questioned. 

"I don't know." Miles grunted as he sat down on the filthy floor. "Does he need it?"

"I have no idea."

"Well, we'll find out. Is he even still alive?"

Trager paused and stared intently at the variant propped up in the wheelchair. He pressed two fingers to the underside of his jaw. "Alive enough." He shrugged. 

"A'ight. I have no idea which needle here you want, and I don't really have a desire to go rifling through a bag full of broken needles." Miles requested. 

"Whichever one you pull out first, buddy. But try to be expedient..." Trager urged, with a glance back at his patient. 

"I'm going, I'm going." Miles grumbled facetiously. He tried to dig around delicately, placing the most intact needle he could find in his teeth, but he ended up swearing in pain once or twice when he stabbed himself. "Fuck, I'm gonna break a needle off in my hand." He complained. "Is there even any surgical thread in here?" Almost the moment he said that, he found the surgical thread. He threaded Trager's needle for him and handed it off to Trager.

"And since when am I a candy striper?" Miles sassed as Trager attempted to sew the ends of the variant's intestine together. "I thought I was a nurse, not a volunteer."

"A nurse would get paid." Trager contradicted. Miles narrowed his eyes at him.

"But I don't have stripes. I think I'd look good in candy stripes, though." Miles thought aloud. 

"Of course you would, sweetheart." Trager hummed. "And good job on those cuts. These are perfectly even. Regardless, what had you so riled up earlier?"

Miles sighed deeply, and it ached his chest still. "That kid in the dress. He's still on about getting out of here or whatever, and he won't let it go. Brings it up every damn time."

"He just needs a little intervention." Trager declared. Miles was silent for a moment. 

"Hey, I want an intervention." He whined. 

"I'll get you one for our anniversary." Trager answered without skipping a beat. 

"Are you done yet?" Miles groaned. 

"Patience, buddy." Trager insisted, then chuckled at himself. Miles responded by rolling over and laying his head on Trager's feet. "Sometimes I wonder why I keep you." Trager sighed.

"Same." Miles yawned. 

"I think that's good. Ah, well, I went around the whole thing. It'll be good enough." Trager dismissed.

"And he doesn't need that gallbladder." Miles jeered. Trager attempted to re-place the variant's intestine into his cavity, with moderate success. He proceeded to begin stitching up the massive incision in his stomach. 

"Also, I want sex." Miles added as an afterthought. Trager shook his head incredulously.

"You're gonna wear me out, buddy."


End file.
